


How to Piss off Your Dad

by skyeward



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, Fluff, Mental Institutions, Past Sexual Assault, Relationship Discussions, Safer Sex, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12687756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyeward/pseuds/skyeward
Summary: Miranda wants to absolutely RUIN Thanksgiving dinner with her father. So she brings Jack.





	1. First Some Epistolary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unklarity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unklarity/gifts).



> For Taylor's birthday and Jackanda day, which are not-at-all-coincidentally the same day!
> 
> Not beta-read, editing a bit right now, so please enjoy any mistakes you find.
> 
> Inspired by: https://78.media.tumblr.com/38669fa379a5484027c088b390ccd702/tumblr_nfib95OJDZ1qmkh6wo1_1280.jpg
> 
> This was meant to be a short fluff piece, not a 30k epic, and yet here we are. Please enjoy your suffering.

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Welcome to MsgBoard!

Area: Los Angeles

Forum: Women 4 Women Casual Encounters

You are viewing only ads within 50 miles of your location.

 

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Ad #: 498312903

Posted by: jack (rabu3453@thefakemail.com)

** alone on thanksgiving? just fucking hate your dad? **

 

wanna piss off your dad on thanksgiving?? invite me to thanksgiving dinner! i'm rude and crude and literally fucking covered in tattoos! i'll fight your gross uncle, hit on your aunts, sell your little cousins fake drugs (not real ones, i don't do that shit anymore, but i know how it goes), and just generally ruin the entire holiday for your entire family, but especially your dad!!

i am 24 years old but i can play anywhere from 18 to 30, i'm a convicted felon, and i drive the oldest, rustiest, loudest junker motorcycle you've ever fucking seen. i can't get drunk for complicated reasons, but i'm can pretend

 

i'm also willing to, on request:

 

  * talk really loudly about religion and/or politics - as a bonus i can just make shit up and pretend to have really strong feelings about it
  * propose to you in front of everyone with a ring i found on the ground yesterday
  * start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or out in the yard so the whole neighborhood can see
  * steal stuff (but not really, i'll give it back to you later)



 

i don't want anything in return but a free thanksgiving dinner, and a lot of it!

 

[Soliciting allowed: **no** ; please do not respond with offers of products or services.]

[Pictures: **yes** ; there are one or more pictures associated with this ad. Click here to view them.]

[Contact poster \- this link will open in a new window.]

Home  Report Ad  Terms of Use

 

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To: rabu3453@thefakemail.com

From: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

Subject: MsgBoard Ad # 498312903

Body:

Hello, I'm interested in your ad for a Thanksgiving date. What kinds of ground rules and such do you have, and are you still available? If possible, I would like for you to do almost everything that you listed, especially starting arguments, but about business instead. I can give you a few talking points to bring up to really get under my father's skin.

Please let me know.

Thanks,

Miranda

 

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From: rabu3453@thefakemail.com

To: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

Subject: RE: MsgBoard Ad # 498312903

Body:

i got a couple offers, but i'm still deciding, probably based on which one sounds like the most fun

ground rules are we talk about what we're gonna do ahead of time. like, i'm not gonna touch u without permission, ur not gonna touch me without permission, etc. if i take anything i'm giving it back and u can't claim it's stolen, and u come up with the backstory for our fake relationship. i suck at that kinda stuff. also u need to tell me how likely i am to get the cops called on me if i start a fight, bc as u can see getting arrested isn't on my list of shit i'm down for

i also need to know where ur family is at, how many people, stuff like that. the brass tacks and nitty gritty lol

 

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From: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

To: rabu3453@thefakemail.com

Subject: RE: MsgBoard Ad # 498312903

Body:

Understood.

My family lives in Beverly Crest. There are probably about 20 people coming to dinner, but not all of them are family. A few are business associates of my father's. My youngest cousins are only about four years old, but I believe they'll be having dinner separately with their nanny. The next youngest ones are about twelve or thirteen now, and the others are adults. I have two uncles and their wives, as well as some assorted family belonging to the wives. Everyone is filthy rich and acts like it, and they're honestly all terrible people with whom I have no desire to build a relationship, so you can say whatever you want to them. I can give you some information if you like.

How firm are you on the no touching rule? I know this is a really strange request and I actually don't usually enjoy people touching me, but for this to really work I would actually like it if you would be sort of physically possessive or touchy? Arm around my waist, things like that. Kissing, if you're comfortable with that. Obviously I'm not asking for sex.

Does that sound agreeable to you? Also, if that was meant to be a War on Cardassa reference, consider it appreciated.

Thanks,

Miranda

 

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From: rabu3453@thefakemail.com

To: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

Subject: RE: MsgBoard Ad # 498312903

Body:

beverly fucking crest, damn. that sounds like it'll be a hell of a dinner.

for the no touching rule, i don't really care about it, it's just an example of boundaries and shit. i'm totally down for playing some grab-ass if u want lol just like let me know somehow if ur gonna grab me back so i don't get too jumpy. do u want like grandma pecks or full-on makeouts or what? if there's gonna be fluid exchange i need to see some test results, tho. just to be safe and shit

you play woc too? what server? if ur good i can always use another person in the unit, we've been mopping delta server with noobs forever but we need more people to take on the big teams. how about hw? is it as good as people say? kinda colorful for a pvp game but everybody says i should try it

some other questions: what's ur last name, and am i gonna be able to smoke while i'm there? cigs, not weed. also u should probably tell me about urself, like what u do and stuff, so i can talk like i know u and who you are, and i guess a pic? i put mine on the ad, but i can send it again if u want

 

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From: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

To: rabu3453@thefakemail.com

Subject: RE: MsgBoard Ad # 498312903

Body:

Yes, there will be smoking areas, since several of my father's associates smoke cigars.

I'm on Delta server also, but that's my secondary server. I play primarily on Alpha. And I'm still forming my opinion of HW, but so far it seems fun, and rather less serious than things like WoC.

I'll tell you my last name and the rest if you tell me your real email address.

 

Miranda

 

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From: the1subject0@coolmail.com

To: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

Subject: thanksgiving dinner

Body:

happy now?

 

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From: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

To: the1subject0@coolmail.com

Subject: RE: Thanksgiving Dinner

Attachment(s): aug17-tests-p1.pdf; aug17-tests-p2.pdf

Body:

Test results are scanned and attached; I think actual kissing would work best.

My last name is Lawson. I work in medical research for a private company, and that's about all the detail I can share. My family doesn't know anything about what I like or what I do; I haven't spoken to any of them in years and I only moved back to town a month ago. So I wouldn't worry about getting to know me too deeply.

 

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From: the1subject0@coolmail.com

To: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

Subject: RE: Thanksgiving Dinner

Attachment(s): nocrabshere.PNG

Body:

did u really fuckin capitalize my subject line?? rude lol. anyway, my test results are attached. i figured i should share too. i know it says jacqueline on there but if u call me that i WILL cut u just fyi. so a couple more things: how old do u want me to look? i look pretty young in general but i could probs play 18 if u want. also what's ur hw name i just got it and it's p fun so far. and then last did u wanna meet up at some point before thanksgiving? just like say hi, find out what we rly look like, talk a little? if so, when and where? probs not near me, i live in south park so

 

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From: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

To: the1subject0@coolmail.com

Subject: RE: Thanksgiving Dinner

Body:

Let's go with young; I'm sure my father will believe you're a gold-digger after the family money or something ridiculous like that.

My name is IceQueenMiri, but my account is private so send me a message and I'll add you.

Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I live in Arcadia, so why don't we meet up at the mall up here? We can do coffee or something. I'll buy. A weeknight would be preferable, since the weekends get very crowded. This upcoming Wednesday would probably be easiest for me, around seven thirty to allow for traffic?

 

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From: the1subject0@coolmail.com

To: not.your.princess@mailbox.com

Subject: RE: Thanksgiving Dinner

Body:

see u then

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the game names are made up y'all. i know nothing about online gaming but i can't get it wrong if it's not real HACKED


	2. Then Some Gossip

"How did I know you would be a sniper main?" Jack says, the first thing she's ever said out loud to Miranda. She's late.

Miranda looks up from her book, takes in the whole picture. She looks good, like her picture. Her face is clear of tattoos and makeup, which makes her look incredibly - almost uncomfortably - young. It's offset by the scars and tattoos that cover almost every inch of visible skin, though, and the overall effect is an age that's clearly young but difficult to nail down. Miranda has to admit, though, that she didn't think Jack would be actually covered in tattoos. It's intense, especially as young as she is, but the effect is definitely striking.

Dressed in baggy cargo pants, heavy boots, and a denim vest over a sleeveless band t-shirt - all of them worn and slightly ragged - she's definitely out of place in this part of town, even without the tattoos. Not Miranda's usual type either; she typically prefers her women tall and broad rather than short, skinny, and shaved nearly bald, but Jack works well with what she has. She's got a nice face too, with a full mouth, and a strong jaw, and cheekbones that give Miranda pangs of envy. She knows she's good-looking - as she was made to be - but she's supposed to look wholesome, the kind of pretty that men think they can take advantage of. Jack looks more like a biker or something - a sharp, dangerous sort of attractiveness. Miranda likes it and, although she feels a vague twinge of guilt for thinking it, she thinks this look will work well for what she's got planned.

Eventually, she answers Jack's original question.

"I'm sure I couldn't guess," Miranda replies primly, but smiles. "Good game, though."

Jack has been looking her up and down this whole time, but her face gives very little away. Even the dry smile that twists her lips seems... forced. Or maybe false is a better word, like a false ceiling that holds everything important out of sight.

"Yeah, gg. Where are we headed?"

Miranda gestures over her shoulder, deeper into the mall.

"This way. It's a bit of a walk, but it's a good cafe, and this way we'll have time to talk also."

"Lead the way."

They walk in silence for a moment, at a distance Miranda can comfortably describe as 'impersonal'.

"So you must really hate your dad," Jack says out of nowhere. Her tone gives nothing away, and she's looking straight ahead when she says it. Miranda isn't sure what to think.

"I suppose I do," she answers slowly. "He deserves it."

"What'd he do, get you the wrong kind of Mercedes for your sweet sixteen?" This time Miranda is positive that she detects a bitterness to Jack's tone, something judgmental, and she is forced to reign in a sudden flash of temper.

She needs Jack, she reminds herself, and can't afford to drive her away. The thought takes her aback a little; she hadn't realized until just this moment how unequal this exchange of power is. Jack doesn't need her at all, hasn't asked for payment or indicated that she is getting anything all out of this but a meal and some entertainment... but Miranda's plans hinge on somebody exactly like her. She's not likely to find a replacement anytime soon, either, and Jack probably knows that full well.

"No." Miranda finally answers, flatly. "But what he's done isn't really any of your business, nor it is not the purpose of this meeting, and I will thank you not to bring it up again."

To her surprise, Jack just shrugs. Her hands are still buried in her jacket pockets and her gaze remains pointed ahead of them.

"Okay then. Wanna talk about the plan for dinner?"

Miranda clutches her purse tighter to her front. She has been thinking extensively on how she wants dinner to go, exactly what she needs to tell to who at exactly what time to achieve optimal results. She needs to impress on her father that Oriana is protected, is beyond his grasp, but she can't afford to bring anyone else in on her secrets. Not after Niket.

"I was thinking," she starts, knowing she can't pull off casual but hoping to disguise her tension as the reticence of a high society girl talking about her dirty fantasies, "Maybe you could do like... a biker look, or pretend to be in a gang. Something dangerous like that."

For the first time, Jack turns those big dark eyes on her, searching. Miranda turns her face away, tries for a shy look through her lashes. Jack's soft mouth turns down in a small frown; she knows something is going on, but not what. Miranda grits her teeth; she may have to trust Jack after all, at least a little, because this silence doesn't sound like Jack is buying her story.

"I guess so," Jack says after a moment, and Miranda tries not to visibly relax. "I mean, I can't really pull off a biker with my piece of shit bike, but gangs are basically all the same anyway. Bikes or no bikes."

"Great!" Miranda tries for a light tone this time. "I'll meet you, introduce you to the family, and maybe you could like, put your arm around me or, you know..." she trails off, suddenly awkward at telling this stranger to please kiss her in front of her family. Awkward, and starting to get frustrated. This isn't like her at all, and she has no idea where this discomfort is coming from.

"Slip you the tongue?" Jack deadpans, and for some reason Miranda's face is hot.

"Yes," she answers stiffly. "That."

"So I'm gonna play touchy, possessive gang-banger and like follow you around with my hands on your ass the whole time, right? Talk outta my ass about business with the guys, hit on their wives, sell some oregano in plastic baggies to the teens... oh, and propose to you. I figure the fight'll happen somewhere in the middle. Sound good?"

It does, actually, and Miranda is just about to say so when she sees... oh, what is her name? Tessa or Jessica or something like that, walking in their direction. She steps closer to Jack.

"I'm going to touch you, please just trust me."

Jack looks startled, but nods, and Miranda slips an arm around her waist, one hand into the back pocket of her pants, and nuzzles against the side of her neck. She breathes into Jack's ear through the smell of cigarette smoke, "The blonde in the flower print dress is the daughter of one of my father's business associates. Follow my lead."

They both pretend to ignore the blonde, ambling along hip-to-hip until she draws even with them. She actually walks right past, but before Miranda makes the call to disengage, she hears the woman's heels stop clicking on the floor.

"Miranda?" a chirpy voice calls out, "Miranda Lawson, is that you?"

Miranda disengages from Jack a bit, drawing tattooed hands to rest on her hips instead. Obligingly, Jack presses up against her back, even going so far as to rest her chin on Miranda's shoulder. It's... less uncomfortable than Miranda would have thought, given her usual distaste for physical contact. At least her face doesn't feel so hot anymore.

"Yes?" she asks, playing as if she doesn't know this woman. "May I help you?"

"It's me, Tessica Shelton! Our fathers work together? I haven't seen you in years, but you look so much like him that it's impossible to miss you!"

Miranda tenses; the last thing she wants is to be compared to her father. Before she can respond, though, Jack's mouth brushes the side of her neck, and the static electricity that briefly overruns her thoughts is enough to keep her from saying anything ill-advised. She'll deal with the electricity later. Jack speaks against the shell of her ear, voice low and lips brushing her skin, and Miranda revises that to much, much later. Alone, in her bed. Or maybe the shower. A bath? She deserves a little pampering.

She pushes those thoughts away.

"Friend of yours, baby?" Jack asks, and Tessica's eyes dart between the two of them, obviously drawing the exact conclusions that Miranda wanted her to. Her physical reactions are overwhelmed by the wave of glee; maybe this all really will work. She pauses to steady her voice before speaking.

"Something like that. Remember I told you about my father's business associates who would be coming to Thanksgiving? Tessica's father is one of them."

Miranda can't see what Jack is doing with her face - other than pressing it against Miranda's neck - but Tessica flushes suddenly, and she can make several guesses.

"Cool," Jack replies slowly. "She's cute."

Miranda chuckles, reaching up to pat the side of Jack's face.

"Ignore her," she tells Tessica, mock-conspiratorially. "She's such a flirt!"

Tessica nods, clearly still flustered, and Miranda takes control of the silence before it gets too long. Turning in Jack's grasp, she laces her own arms around the slender waist and stretches up a bit to give her a quick, dry peck on the mouth. The turn gives her an instant to check what stores are near them; there are a couple of clothing places, fortunately, which will do for her next plan of attack. It also occurs to her that maybe she actually ought to buy Jack some new clothes, while they're here. Gang-banger is one thing, but shabby clothes might be beyond the pale.

"Why don't you head on into the store while I talk to Tessica for a second, hm? Pick out something nice, okay? As much as I love your scruffy look, I wouldn't want my sugar baby to meet the family looking less than her best. I'll meet you inside in a minute and we can... try some things on." She tries to say that last suggestively, knowing Tessica is still standing nearby, watching them.

Jack just stares at her for a second, wide-eyed, and Miranda tilts her chin a bit towards the closest shops, trying to psychically convey that she'll explain more in a minute. Either Jack gets the hint or she just decides to go along with it, because she plants another kiss on Miranda's lips before turning and walking away.

Miranda turns back to Tessica, smoothing down her shirt and putting on her most calming smile. Tessica looks ready to bolt; she always was the good, sweet, innocent type. Halfway to Stepford and not even married yet. She was also, helpfully enough for Miranda's plans, always the gossipy type. By this time tomorrow, Miranda's father will think she's sleeping with - and spending all her money on - an eighteen-year-old gang member.

She just has to make Tessica believe it first.


	3. A Little Shopping

Jack wanders the aisles of the clothing store, surrounded on all sides by men's fashion that probably costs more for one piece than she spent on her entire wardrobe. What has she gotten herself into? Sure, Miranda is pretty enough - in a well-bred kind of way - but there's clearly more to this than just a girl who resents her father. Her reaction to Jack's needling certainly gave that much away.

On the other hand, she's sort of fun to tease and she really is as good a player as she thinks she is. And she smells good, which should have no impact on Jack's decision-making, but there it is.

She stops in front of a rack of leather jackets, each one artfully displayed, pristine, and completely out of her league. There are no visible price tags, and she doesn't dare search for one. In fact, she keeps her hands buried in her pockets; an employee has been following her since she came inside, strategically neatening or refolding items just within sight of her, and if she's going to get arrested, it's not going to be for not even stealing a damn jacket.

She wanders up and down a couple more aisles, being followed the whole way, and her irritation slowly grows. She knows it's not the tattoos, or the shaved head, or any of that. They probably serve rich skinhead guys all the time here. It's the shabbiness of her clothes, the way she slouches, other things that she can't identify off the top of her head but which must just surround her in an aura of 'poor'. She's just glad she passes for white, or they'd have already hauled her out in cuffs.

Luckily Miranda is as good as her word, sweeping in a couple of minutes later and then looking around irritably.

"Is nobody helping you? Did you find anything you like?"

Jack has to pause for a second, just to contain the rush of irritation and adjust to the idea that there is such a level of absolute obliviousness that somebody could imagine that an employee of this kind of store would help someone like her, rather than watch them. Miranda's expectant stare just adds to it, and Jack can hear the snappishness in her own voice when she replies.

"Um, no. I've been too busy not touching any-fucking-thing so they don't call the cops on me for shoplifting. You're not serious about buying me clothes, are you? Because I told you, all I want is-"

"A meal, I know." Miranda looks up at the leather jackets too, then shakes her head. "But nobody's going to believe I've got an eighteen-year-old sugar baby if you show up wearing cheap clothes. It's not a bribe, I just have a narrative to sell and the resources to do it well. If you don't want the clothes after dinner, I don't care. Throw them out, donate them, bring them back to the store, whatever you want. What about this?"

Miranda holds up a navy blazer, and Jack almost gags. Not only is it ugly, but it's another reminder that yet another rich person is standing there, trying to use wealth to control her. To own her. Her face grows hot.

"First of all, no. Second of all, hell no. And third of all... hell fucking no! If you think," she continues, lowering her voice to a hiss since she can still see an employee hanging around nearby, "If you think that you're just gonna steamroll me and do whatever you want, you got another fucking thing coming, lady. Just because you have money doesn't mean you own me! You can't tell me what to wear or how to-"

The longer she goes on, the angrier she gets, until she suddenly realizes that she's whisper-yelling in the middle of a ridiculously expensive clothing store in the middle of a ridiculously fancy mall, and is overwhelmed briefly by the sheer volume of... well, ridiculousness. She sighs, feels herself deflate. She hates apologizing, but if she's learned one thing from six years of intense therapy, it's that she has to acknowledge her mistakes in order to move past them.

Miranda is still holding the blazer, her face unreadable.

"Look, I'm sorry," Jack starts. She's rubbing one hand over the fuzz that covers her head, a nervous gesture that she recognizes but can't seem to stop. "That was more about me than about you, you've actually been pretty decent for the most part. If you really wanna dress me up for dinner, then I guess that's fine. But not here."

Slowly, Miranda puts the blazer back.

"Then where?" she asks. She sounds cautious, which Jack can't really fault her for, but follows along gamely enough when Jack takes her hand and leads her out of the store and to the closest directory. Their hands feel nice together.

They shop for a while, and Miranda spends more money than Jack even wants to think about. She actually walks away before the cashiers give the totals, afraid of what her reaction might be to the hundreds and hundreds of dollars Miranda is probably spending on one outfit. She's still not sure what she's going to do with it after the dinner, either.

Miranda joins her outside of the shoe shop last, handing her a bag with the nicest pair of boots Jack has ever owned. These, at least, she knows she's going to keep. She kind of wants to put them on right now, but restrains herself.

"I think that's everything," Miranda says in a tone of voice that Jack can't help but categorize as 'knows that was everything'. It makes her want to needle Miranda just a little.

"Really?" she asks, peering exaggeratedly into each bag in turn. She's got pants, a shirt, boots, a jacket, even gloves and a hat - in case it's cold that day, Miranda said, as if it ever gets cold in SoCal. She doesn't need anything else, but the urge to tease Miranda just won't go away. She jokes, "What about underwear and socks? Not gonna buy any lingerie for your sugar baby, huh mama?"

Miranda's reaction isn't what she was expecting; she fixes Jack with a hard stare for a second, then glances slowly up and down her body in a way that makes Jack want to squirm in her seat. She's had people check her out before, but nothing quite this, well, deliberate. To her surprise, it's kind of... exciting. Finally, Miranda speaks.

"Victoria's Secret is that way." She points to the left. "You don't seem like a Pink kind of person."

"I was joking!" Jack blurts out, but Miranda is already on the move. "Hey, come on, I was just fucking with you. Besides, I wear boxers!"

Miranda keeps walking, Jack hustling along beside her with arms full of bags.

"Miranda! Come on, seriously, I have underwear. Please?"

Finally, Miranda stops. She turns, slowly, and Jack nearly drops her bags when she sees the absolutely shit-eating grin on her face.

"Gotcha."

"You-" Jack sputters, then can't help it: she laughs. "You fucking got me all right, nice one. No lingerie?"

"No lingerie," Miranda confirms, smiling still. "But I believe I did promise you a cafe, if you're tired of carrying those bags yet."

Free food is free food, so Jack nods her agreement, and they're off once more.

Before they part for the day, they exchange phone numbers and make tentative plans for Thanksgiving day. Miranda takes the clothes with her, since Jack has no space for that enormous pile on her bike, but Jack takes the jacket and boots. To break them in, she says, but she has to admit that rattling down the highway on her bike-shaped rust sculpture in them feels pretty damn nice. Maybe she could get used to having a sugar mama.


	4. Some Fancy Clothes

They don't meet up again until early Thanksgiving morning, when Jack rolls up to Miranda's apartment building still bleary-eyed from the absurd time she had to get up to make the slow crawl through traffic. Thanksgiving isn't supposed to start until noon at the earliest, and yet it seems like half the city is out and about at seven in the morning.

They've spoken by text a few times - well, once, when Jack had teasingly offered nudes, but most of their conversations have taken place in-game, and have nothing at all to do with plans for Thanksgiving. This is the first time she's seen Miranda face-to-face since their little shopping trip.

She's cleaned up her bike a little in the intervening two weeks, fixed a couple of the louder rattling bits and a leak, and even acquired a helmet. For Miranda; Jack doesn't bother with one. When she pulls it into a visitor space, though, it still looks out of place against the backdrop of fancy high-dollar cars all new and gleaming. She shrugs; there's nothing she can do about it now, and aside from online she has no reason to believe she'll ever speak to Miranda again, much less come to her apartment.

Miranda buzzes her up immediately and meets her outside the elevator in tiny terrycloth shorts and a short-sleeve buttoned shirt that looks like pajamas. Jack has to struggle not to stare at the at the soft white swell of her thighs where they dimple at the hem of her shorts and then come together. And then Miranda turns to lead her back to the apartment and Jack just gives up and lets herself look.

Miranda catches her staring, of course, and Jack just gives her a cheeky grin.

"What? You have a nice ass and I'm practicing for later," she says, and Miranda rolls her eyes but doesn't look displeased.

"You're an ass," she says with a smile, and lets Jack into the apartment. "Your clothes are in the guest room over there if you'd like to get changed. I've got to go have a shower, so no hurry, and there's food in the kitchen if you'd like anything." With that, she disappears into what Jack presumes is the bathroom.

Free food is, as usual, Jack's first priority. She hustles over to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets and assembling herself a small selection of snacks. Unsurprisingly - at least in hindsight - there's no junk food to be had. She settles for a bag of baby carrots, some crackers, and something called 'mixed nut butter' which she really only grabs to laugh about the name but which is pretty good when she tries it.

What turns out to actually be surprising is that Miranda's shower isn't very long at all, and Jack has only managed to eat about half of her snacks before the other woman emerges in a billow of steam. She's wrapped in a scandalously short towel, and Jack finds herself frozen with a cracker halfway to her mouth, which is hanging open.

Luckily, Miranda is busy fixing the towel wrapped around her hair, and Jack manages to shut her mouth before she gets it back in place.

"Good, you found something to eat. The shower's free if you want to take one, but keep it quick because I'll still need to do my hair before we leave."

"Yeah, me too," Jack teases, rubbing a hand over her own short fuzz, and Miranda rolls her eyes. Awkward moment successfully deflected with humor, Jack congratulates herself, and celebrates with a mouthful of carrots and trying not to think about Miranda's body. Having seen quite a bit of it and been pressed up against it, it's pretty difficult. She wonders if Miranda will smell of the same floral whatever she did back then, and then wonders if she should've bought some cologne or something.

She shrugs, figuring if Miranda wants it she can supply it. She tidies away her snack, brushing crumbs off of her hands into the sink and neatly rolling the bag back up - somehow, based on the immaculate condition of the apartment, she gets the feeling Miranda would have something to say otherwise.

After that, there's nothing left to do but go get dressed, so she does. The whole thing feels weird; standing in somebody else's house in her underwear, sorting through her new clothes which are now hanging in somebody else's closet. Not that the clothes feel like hers, either, but she pulls them on anyway. The low-cut white tank top tucked into her boxers, then the skin-tight black jeans that she knows cost at least a hundred dollars, riding low on her hips to expose the waistband of her underwear. By all rights the jeans are too tight for boxers and scrunch the material up awkwardly around her thighs, but after critical examination in the mirror she's not willing to give up the look. She adjusts the fabric to lay as comfortably as it will, and decides to just deal with it otherwise.

She pulls on her boots, tightening the buckles a bit, then slings her new leather jacket over the top, closing it up just to check the look and then undoing it. It is not a practical jacket in the slightest - it barely covers her tits - but it's black leather covered in little square studs and it closes with these ridiculous metal clasps that make her unrealistically happy. She loves it. She likes the jeans somewhat less, but they do make her ass look pretty fantastic. She can't wait to start a fight with someone for checking it out.

Jack doesn't think of herself as vain, but as she gazes at herself in the mirror, twisting this way and that, she has to admit she looks pretty hot. She steps closer to the mirror and twists a little further, trying to get a better look at her butt, then finds herself laughing - she hadn't noticed in the store, but the tank top clearly isn't meant to be worn by itself. The damn thing is see-through. It's some kind of dense mesh that looks opaque until worn, she supposes, and even then the effect is only apparent in the right light. She tests it, steps into the sunlight streaming through the windows and yes, there is her torso, everything from her tattoos to her nipples clearly visible. She can even see the slight glint of her piercings. When she moves into the shadow, it's harder to see unless you know what to look for; it looks like a sort of subtle pattern.

She's not going to have to wait for somebody to eyeball her ass after all, she thinks gleefully, just wait till they get a good look at this shirt! She clips the jacket closed again and bustles out into the living room. To her surprise Miranda is already there, headed into the bathroom to do her hair. She's wearing a tiny white dress that just barely covers the curve of her ass, heeled black knee-high boots, and a leather jacket identical to what Jack's wearing.

Jack is too excited about the tank top to really take the outfit in, but even without that she can tell that first, Miranda's ass really does look that good, and second that she has put some effort into matching their clothes.

"Miranda! Look at this, this is fucking amazing!"

Miranda looks her up and down with that same hard gaze as before, and once again it sends a little hot shiver down Jack's spine.

"Very nice," Miranda starts, but Jack cuts her off, reaching up and unbuckling her jacket. She really wants to show this off.

"Now look at this," she chortles, opening the black leather and letting Miranda get a good look at her shirt. Miranda looks puzzled at first, until Jack takes a big step backwards and into the light, and then her eyes widen and she covers her face with a hand.

"It's transparent," Miranda sighs, her voice taking on that same 'time to plan stuff' tone from before. "We need to get you a different-"

"No fucking way!" Jack interrupts with a laugh, and Miranda looks up to treat her to a confused look.

"This... doesn't bother you?"

"Not even a little! I have nice tits, why wouldn't I want to show them off? Just like-" She closes the jacket, then tears it open dramatically, "Bam! Tits! Your dad is gonna cry at dinner."

Miranda gives her another long look, and Jack suddenly kind of wishes she didn't love this surprise-naked shirt so much, because she knows Miranda can see what's going on with her nipples. But she does love the shirt, and loves the idea of surprising Miranda's family with an eyeful of her naked body. She's positive somebody will tell her to close her jacket back up again before she so much as steps into the house, but even so she makes a mental note to close it when there are kids in the room. She may be a bit of an exhibitionist, but that's a line even for her.

While she's busy thinking, through, Miranda has stepped closer. Jack is startled out of her thoughts by a warm hand splaying across her belly, sliding up across her flank and around to her back. It's followed almost immediately by an equally warm body pressing against her front, and then Miranda is flush against her, lush curves molding to Jack's narrow frame, and her face is very, very close. She's taller with those heels on, and their mouths are on level.

Jack swallows, suddenly incapable of thought. Miranda smiles.

"May I kiss you?"

Before she even realizes she's doing it, Jack nods, and then Miranda's mouth is on hers. The kiss is all soft lips and hot tongue, and she definitely feels it more - and in more places - than their hasty performative kisses at the mall. She loops her own arm around Miranda's waist, goes straight for that ass and grabs herself a firm handful. They kiss slowly for a few moments - logically, Jack thinks, it can't have been longer than that - before finally pulling apart.

"As much as I enjoy it," Miranda murmurs, her lips against Jack's jaw, "I think we should probably cover you up just a bit. There's a bag in the top left drawer of my dresser, go have a look."

"You just wanna get me in your bedroom," Jack jokes weakly, legs trembling a little.

"Maybe." Miranda purrs. Without further comment, she slides her hand out of Jack's back pocket - when did that even get there? - and saunters into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Jack stands there for a moment, dazed, listening the whirr of the blowdryer, before she finally snaps out of it and stumbles for Miranda's room. Just like everything else, this room is meticulously clean and tidy, from the neatly-made burgundy bedsheets to the spotless glass of the balcony doors.

She opens the top left drawer as instructed, is greeted by the sight of probably fifty neatly-folded pairs of socks and at least that many equally tidy thongs. She wasn't even aware that thongs could be folded, but she's not surprised - that seems like Miranda's style. On top is a plain white paper shopping bag, which she opens hesitantly. Inside are several pairs of boxers in different colors and patterns, and then one strapless black bra and something that she assumes is also a bra, but which looks like an oversized black headband.

She sets it down, shucks out of her jacket, and tugs the tank top out of her boxers before pulling that over her head as well. She tries on the strapless bra first, but finds herself almost immediately irritated with it; it makes her breasts look weird, too big and too high up. Maybe she's wearing it wrong? She tugs it down a little, back up a little, tries tucking herself further in, but it never looks - or feels - quite right. Finally she gives up and takes it off, tossing it on the floor and then immediately picking it up again. Miranda's house, she reminds herself, putting it back in the bag.

Next up is the headband-looking thing, which she isn't sure what to do with. She turns it over in her hands; the fabric is soft and elastic, edged on the inside with a slightly tacky-feeling gel material.

There's a knock at the doorframe; without thinking she calls for Miranda to come in.

"It's called a bandeau," Miranda says from the doorway, "You pull it on over your head."

But as she walks into the room her eyes are fixed on Jack's naked upper body, the blue of her eyes almost obliterated by the black of her pupils, and Jack can almost feel Miranda's hands on her body. She imagines those lips between her shoulder blades, hands sliding over her belly and down, down...

She shakes herself out of it and looks away from that hungry gaze. She needs to get dressed before this goes somewhere that she isn't sure she's ready for.

Looking in the back of the bra tells her which way is up, so she pulls it over her head and makes the necessary adjustments, then looks at herself in the mirror. It's comfortable, it doesn't try to play push-up, and it covers her nipples. Good enough.

She finishes redressing quickly, and when she turns back around Miranda is no longer staring. Her cheeks are still flushed, though, and she looks... well, good. Excellent. Edible, even. Jack stuffs her hands in her pockets and scuffs a toe against the carpet.

"Ready to go?"

Miranda shakes her head, circles Jack at a careful distance - it looks like her self-control may need some work as well - and opens a different drawer. After a moment she tugs out a wide belt, the same dark blue as Jack's boxers by some miracle of planning, and fastens it around her waist, letting it hang low to emphasize the generous curve of her hips. She smiles, a little shakily, but the intensity of the moment seems to be fading.

"Now I'm ready."


	5. A Couple Makeouts

They rattle up to a truly enormous house around ten in the morning, and Jack has to fight to neither run away nor jump off the bike and scream. The amount of security they passed just to get to this point is honestly a little frightening; that combined with the tension of having Miranda's body plastered to her back for over an hour, and Jack is about ready to explode.

Miranda points, since the bike is too loud to really allow for conversation, and Jack pulls up where she is directed. She cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is shocking. She just sits for a moment, trying to take everything in, as Miranda slides awkwardly off the back of the bike - hard to do in such a short dress without showing everything to everybody - and takes off her helmet.

"Loud as it was," she comments as she hangs her helmet from the back of the bike and starts undoing the braid she put in after her shower, "I have to admit it was an enjoyable ride."

That, at least, is something Jack is prepared to think about. She puts down the kickstand and dismounts, patting the bike's gas tank fondly.

"She's a rust-bucket, but under it all she's a good bike with a nice engine. It's all I can do to keep her running these days, but I'll get her prettied up someday."

"I wish you luck with that." Miranda shakes her hair out, the now-wavy strands bouncing free, and Jack has to look away. What is it about the pale, vulnerable skin of Miranda's throat makes her want to bite something? "There, done. Let's head inside."

Miranda turns to walk away, and Jack watches her go for a second before hustling after her, enjoying the sound of her new boots thumping on the pale stone of the driveway. She's not sure if she hopes that her bike won't leak oil onto the pristine surface, or if she hopes it will. She doesn't want to have to fix it again, but that would sure piss off Miranda's dad.

"You okay?" she finds herself asking, and Miranda doesn't look at her.

"I'm fine."

It's a lie, Jack can just tell somehow. Maybe it's the tension in her shoulders, the exaggerated straightness of her spine, or the sharp, even beat of her heels on the ground. Jack steps closer, loops an arm around Miranda's waist in one smooth motion that she's honestly surprised she actually makes successfully; she half-expected Miranda to break away from her and keep walking.

"Hey," she says, trying to break whatever feedback loop of stress Miranda has stepped into. Then she sees a face in the window of the house, and finds herself torn between maintaining the illusion and comforting her... friend. Or whatever. She'll worry about that later.

In the end, she tugs Miranda to a gentle stop and nuzzles her neck a little, places a soft kiss up behind her ear.

"Hey," she repeats, and this time Miranda actually looks at her. Her face is tense, and it's easy to see the muscles of her jaw bunching, easy to see that her teeth are clenched and her eyes are dilated. "I don't know what's going on," Jack starts, awkward but determined, "Or what's making you so tense, but I'm in your corner, okay? You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but... well, you're a pretty cool person for a rich kid, and you bought me these kickass boots, so if you want me to punch somebody I'm down."

Miranda lets out a little bark of a laugh, and some of the tension falls from her shoulders, a little of the life leeches back into her eyes. A job well done, as far as Jack is concerned.

"Now," Jack continues with a grin, deliberately reaching down to palm Miranda's ass again, "You wanna go trot your little punk sugar baby in front of your asshole father?"

"Hell yes," is the firm reply, followed by a brief peck of a kiss as she slides her own hand into Jack's back pocket.

They walk up to the house hip-to-hip, and the door opens before they even reach it. A weaselly-looking man looks them up and down, settling on Miranda's face.

"Miss Lawson," he says, and his voice is weirdly deep and rich. It throws Jack off a little but she still manages a toothy grin, casual and irreverent. She's had years of practice at redirecting her discomfort into a variety of less-than-constructive behaviors, of which humor and aggression are her favorites. Luckily, there's lots of discomfort to be had today and plenty of people who deserve all the worst aspects of her personality.

"I'm Jack," she tells him without prompting. "Miss Lawson's date."

He graces her with another look, more obviously disapproving this time, then turns to wave them both inside. Jack's about to take off walking in the direction he gestured to, but Miranda holds her back, turning to murmur into Jack's ear.

"He's going to lead us in and announce us. Let him go ahead."

Rich people are, Jack is reminded yet again, fucking weird. But she slows obediently, letting rodent-man go ahead and following him down the hall and around the corner into a surprisingly cosy sitting area already half-full of people. The place positively drips with wealth, and the people who look at them don't look in the slightest bit friendly. Jack finds herself pressing closer to Miranda's side, almost clinging to her.

"Miss Miranda Lawson," the butler or whatever announces, "And Jack."

At the announcement of Miranda's name, a hush sweeps over the room. The only people unaffected are the two small children, twins if she had to guess, running around the room waving what look like big cell phones. Or small tablets, which seems like a reasonable thing for rich children to be playing with. She kind of wants to steal them.

One of the kids trips and begins to cry, a woman swoops in to handle it, and the silence is... well, not broken, but at least relieved a bit. Quiet conversations start up here and there, finger food is circulated, and only like five or six people are still watching Jack and Miranda as they step into the room together.

Miranda takes the lead as they navigate the room, exchanging tense greetings with various people, and Jack is more than happy to let her. She does her best to perform her role despite her nerves, openly flirting with nearly every woman she meets and pretending as if she really is a spoiled sugar baby looking for an even richer woman. She doesn't even remember any of their names.

Miranda, for her part, knows everyone and talks politely and professionally with them, discussing family and business in a light tone although Jack can see and feel the tension building back up in her body. She also, of course, pretends to have no idea that her date is blatantly hitting on half her family. Not that it does any good; almost nobody responds in any interesting way to her attempts, just like nobody apparently notices when she slips some small crystals and a little silver ashtray into her pockets. It's mostly just identical pinched looks of disapproval deepening into even more pinched looks of stronger disapproval. She entertains herself by imaging their faces if she'd actually shown up with her nipples visible... they'd probably have drawn into actual points and then exploded.

As time passes, Jack starts to feel a little more confident - rich people might be weird and boring, but they're still people and she definitely knows how to fuck with people. She unpeels a bit from Miranda's side, but keeps their fingers laced together.

After all, she only needs one hand to flash a little plastic baggie of oregano at a grungy, slouching teenager and murmur a ridiculous number at him. He doesn't even argue, stuffing sixty dollars into her hand and walking away with his fake drugs and a somewhat less sour expression. Four other teenagers find her in rapid succession after that; she can't wait to see them later, after they try to smoke it.

They've probably been there an hour when they come across Tessica, hanging on the arm of a nondescript blonde man, and she smiles nervously at them.

"It's lovely to see you again," she titters, not daring to look too long at Jack. Jack, a little annoyed that she hasn't been able to really piss anybody off yet, is more than happy to reprise her role from their first meeting but decides to amp it up a little, giving her a salacious grin and pretending to peruse her thin frame.

"Hey cutie, nice to see you again too. How've you been?"

Boring Guy steps between them, and Jack grins her nasty grin at him.

"You her brother?" she asks, and he bristles. "Don't worry," she breezes, pretending to be oblivious to his anger, "I'll send her home in one piece. I mean, if she wants me to anyway. How about it, sweetheart?"

"Miranda," the man says, "Please control your date." Jack wants to laugh at him but also kind of wants to punch him. Does he think she's a child? Does he think Miranda is her keeper? What does he expect to accomplish, speaking over Jack's head as if she doesn't understand what's going on? Suddenly, she really, really wants to fight this person in particular.

"Oh she's harmless," Miranda says with a little laugh, drawing Jack closer to her side and sliding an arm back around her waist. Jack keeps her eyes on Tessica's boyfriend, her teeth still bared.

"Yeah," she agrees in her most dangerous growl, "I'm harmless."

Miranda begins to pull her away, clearly not ready for the promised fight to happen right this second, but Jack keeps her eyes on the blonde man for as long as she can. By the time Miranda turns far enough away that she has to break eye contact, she can see the tendons standing out in his neck despite Tessica's hand on his bicep and her flustered attempts to soothe him.

"I'm gonna fight him," Jack tells Miranda as they come to a stop in a somewhat quieter corner of the room. A few new people have arrived in the meantime, but a quick headcount seems to indicate that everyone who's supposed to be there probably is. Although, oddly enough, she hasn't heard Miranda greet anybody as her father.

"I'm sure he'll make it easy," Miranda replies, and although her tone is deliberately casual, it's clear that something is wrong. Clearly they need to talk. She presses up to Miranda's front, wrapping both arms around her waist and rubbing one hand soothingly up and down her back. She presses several soft kisses to Miranda's mouth, waiting for her to relax a little and kiss back before doing her usual move of nuzzling up to Miranda's throat and speaking softly.

"What's the matter?"

"It's my father," Miranda replies, finally getting into their little charade - which isn't really a charade, by the way Jack feels like boiling out of her skin, but she's not going to think about that right now, when Miranda is cupping the back of her head with one hand and digging fingernails into her scalp. She wants to back Miranda up against the wall and take her right there in front of her family, but she doesn't, because that's not in the plan and because Miranda is speaking again, obviously on-edge and not in the mood to hear about the filthy ideas Jack's brain keeps firing at her.

"He hasn't shown up yet," Miranda says against Jack's ear, "And that worries me. It means he's up to something, but I've been away from home so long that I have no idea what it could be."

"Excuse me!"A sharp voice speaks abruptly from just behind Jack's left side, and she very nearly elbows whoever it is in an instinctive rush to protect herself. "Excuse me, there are children here!"

Jack looks over her shoulder and spots a couple of the teenagers, staring with their mouths open. She snarls at them and they both turn red and scuttle away; she doesn't want to think about where they're going or what they're going to do.

"Problem solved," she snaps at the interrupter, then turns back to Miranda. The moment is over, though, and she's staring fixedly at the doorway they came in through with mouth slightly open. Her hand has dropped to Jack's side, and her nails are digging in hard enough to hurt.

"Miranda," she starts, then winces as the grip on her side tightens further. "That hurts-"

"My father is here," Miranda interrupts her, but she does let go of Jack's side to grab the bottom corner of her jacket instead, holding on tight. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I need to speak with him, and he's going to... well, he's going to say some things. Most of it won't be true, but some of it will be, and I promise I will explain later, but-"

"Hey," it's Jack's turn to interrupt, rubbing her hands up and down Miranda's sides in what she hopes is a comforting gesture. "I got your back, babe. Remember? I got your back."

Miranda's eyes flick down to hers, panicked but affectionate, and she presses a soft kiss to Jack's mouth.

"Thank you."

And then her father walks up.


	6. Wind Him Up a Little

"Miranda." He says, and her first thought is that he looks old. Has it really been eight years? Oriana is nearly nine, so it must have been.

Somehow she has never really thought about him growing old, about him dying someday. He's got to be sixty now, she thinks, but wealth will probably give him another forty years if he doesn't get hit by a truck. A long way to go, but she's committed to both outliving him and keeping Oriana out of his grasp until the day he dies.

"Henry." She replies in the same tone, meeting his gaze squarely. She hasn't called him 'father' in a decade, and she isn't about to start now. "Lovely to see you again."

He stares at her for a long moment, and she studies his face as she might a medical scan. The bags beneath his eyes have grown, his face has begun to sag. He's got a touch of a jowl, now, and the first faint hints of liver spots. His hair is streaked with grey, but she knows he dyes it - it looked the same when she was a child. He really is growing old.

"Where is she?" he asks without further preamble, and Miranda thinks she detects a small tremor in his hand. It might just be carefully-contained rage but oh, how it pleases her to think of him developing tremors as he ages, until he can no longer write, no longer feed himself - until he is dependent on others for his care. Powerful, lucid, helpless. The very idea makes her smile, and she knows it is not a kind one.

"I have no idea," she answers him after a deliberate pause, and she is telling the absolute truth. Closed adoption, false names, her pleading with the woman from the agency, crying that she just couldn't bear to meet the people adopting 'her' baby, could they please just find her a good home? Oriana is gone from her life for good, and while the void hurts more than she could ever have imagined, more than she will ever adapt to, it is a good hurt. Her sister is safe, and Miranda will gladly suffer for the rest of her life to ensure that it remains that way.

Her father - Henry, not her father, not worthy of the title - is staring again, his blue eyes as sharp and cold as ever. He thinks that she's lying, that she's scheming. He's trying to figure out why she's here. She congratulates herself again on the deceptive simplicity of her plan: to simply show up, act suspicious, and do nothing. There is no good reason for her presence, and she has brought with her no plans, no schemes, not ulterior motives at all except to make him suffer. He won't enjoy a bite of dinner, too busy wonder what she's up to, and she will feast on his dime and hopefully speed his path to the grave. She wonders if she could give him a stroke.

"Who is that?" he asks at long last, and points at Jack, who says nothing. She's pressed against Miranda's back again, hands on her hips and chin on her shoulder, and although they barely know each other Miranda can't help but feel comforted. Jack has no idea what they're talking about, no idea who really did what to whom, but she stands unconditionally behind Miranda. It gives her confidence.

"This is my girlfriend, Jack."

"Sup." Jack greets him, and Miranda delights in his frown.

"Where are you from?" He asks, and Miranda knows this is code: 'you are not white; what are you?' She was raised on this rhetoric, on his ideas that whiteness was under attack, under siege, being driven out of their own God-given country. They weren't racist, you see, just proud of their whiteness, and shouldn't they be allowed to be proud?

All part and parcel of the same hateful garbage she's spent the last eight years unlearning.

"I have no idea," Jack answers in a credible mimicry of Miranda's earlier reply.

Henry looks at Miranda as if she might have a better answer for him; she shrugs a little and puts on a mysterious smile, although she doesn't know any more than he does. They talked so much about Miranda and her family, about her likes and dislikes and what to bring up to incense her father over dinner, but she never really got to know much about Jack. She wonders what Jack must think of her for that.

Henry looks at Jack for a long moment, then apparently dismisses her; instead, he levels that piercing gaze back on Miranda.

"You don't really expect me to believe you have no idea where she is. We both know you took her to use as leverage against me, and even you can't be foolish enough to hide a tool from yourself."

Miranda shrugs, lifts Jack's hand from her hip and plays with the slender fingers for a moment. Taking Oriana may not have been meant to antagonize him, but this is.

"We don't 'both' know anything. I doubt that you would understand my intentions even if I explained them to you, but I suggest you accept the fact that as far as you and your plans are concerned, she doesn't exist anymore. She may as well have never existed."

His hands are shaking noticeably now, and the little muscle under his left eye has begun to jump. He's furious, Miranda can tell. He's been scheming this whole time, plotting and planning and searching, trying to find his 'legacy', and somehow - from his perspective - Miranda has been one step ahead of him the entire time.

"I brought you into this world," he hisses, "I gave you the best of everything. The best schools, electronics, tutors, trainers, doctors, all yours at your slightest whim. And you repay me not just by kidnapping your sister but by failing to live up to your potential in every way. You could have been President - instead you're a kidnapper and a murderer. You ruined everything for your own selfishness. The last of the Lawson name, and a blight on it. What colleges would you have gone to, if you hadn't run away? What she would have been like, if you hadn't kidnapped her?"

"I know," she snaps back, gripping harder to Jack's hand. She receives an equally tight squeeze in response, and it's enough to reign in her temper somewhat, to keep her from sinking to her father's level. "I know," she repeats more calmly, "Exactly what my life would have been like. I found your schedules."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"No? Let me see if I can jog your memory. At eighteen, I was to attend your alma mater Yale. Eighteen hours per semester, twelve for the summers. Model UN and swimming for extracurriculars, lose a few pounds because I was starting to get 'fat thighs'. Graduate early, attend Harvard Law. You even selected my advisor, my dorm, my classes for every semester. A short list of acceptable friends and an even shorter one of potential boyfriends. Sound familiar?"

"That was all to help you! You were always such an unmotivated child, I had to keep you on the right track!"

Henry is close to losing this argument by all the rules of polite society - his voice is loud enough to carry beyond their little corner, and wouldn't _that_ be an embarrassment? Behind her, Miranda hears Jack choke a little. She glances back and Jack looks like she's fighting hard not to laugh. Miranda pats her thigh but can't help a smile herself. Jack barely knows her and already laughs at someone calling her unmotivated; it's amazing how Henry knows so very little about her even after - she assumes - he's had investigators and spies crawling all around her for the past eight years. He always did think he knew best; she imagines him reading the reports about her and scoffing to imagine his 'unmotivated' daughter accomplishing the things that she has.

"And I 'had to' leak your business activities to the government. You were getting a little crooked there, Henry, and I wouldn't want you to stray onto the path of... unscrupulousness."

There's a long silence as Henry stares at her, that little eye muscle jumping more rapidly now, and Miranda wonders if she could actually induce a stroke this way. She's certainly willing to try.

Then a bell rings from the next room like a benediction from heaven. Or, more likely, like one of the house staff waiting for a break in the conversation before summoning everyone for dinner. Miranda graces her father with a cruel smile and turns away, lifts Jack's hand to her mouth and just breathes for a moment before kissing the back of it softly, gratefully. Behind her, she hears his steps on the wood floor, moving away. She knows Jack is looking at her, can feel the stillness of her body, and keeps her eyes down. She doesn't want to meet those inquiring eyes or answer the questions that she knows are coming.

Instead of asking anything, though, Jack simply turns her hand around so she can cup Miranda's face. She stays there, unmoving except for the soft back-and-forth brush of her thumb against Miranda's jaw, as Miranda takes a slow, deep breath and lets it out in a gusty sigh.

"Feel better?" Jack asks, and Miranda shakes her head, chuckling, and cups her hand over Jack's to hold it to her face.

"No, not really. This is not the end of that discussion, I can guarantee you."

"You know," Jack says teasingly, moving in to kiss Miranda's mouth softly, "This is a lot of fucking drama for some turkey, I just want you to know that. There had better be like... booze and a turducken in there."

This time Miranda laughs out loud, pulling Jack's hand from her face at last but only to press a wet kiss to the palm. She feels Jack shiver, and can't help but smile. In this, at least, she has some control. She runs the nails of her free hand up Jack's side, over that ridiculous mesh tanktop and then up under her jacket, and Jack trembles like a leaf in her grasp, but moves closer. The jacket slips off over her shoulders and hits the floor with a clatter. 

Emboldened, Miranda kisses the inside of Jack's wrist, then her forearm, nips at the inside of her elbow and hears her gasp softly. One tattooed hand has tangled in the hair at the nape of Miranda's neck, holding tight enough to hurt. She doesn't mind.

"Miri," Jack breathes, and Miranda's heart aches a little at the sound of the nickname that nobody has called her in eight years. It was Oriana's first word, actually, and bittersweet to this day.

Before she can reply, there's the sound of somebody clearing their throat behind her, and she realizes that they're supposed to be at dinner. She glances over her shoulder, sees a nervous-looking young woman standing there, and gives her best polite smile.

"We'll be along presently," she says, barely keeping her voice level. "Just a moment longer, if you please."

"Yes miss," the woman chirps, backing away.

Miranda turns back to Jack, slides her hand back down Jack's arm to twine their fingers together. Jack's pupils are wide and dark, and Miranda wants more than anything to stay right where she is, the only place where it feels like she has any support or control... but the staff girl is standing there, waiting, and Miranda has to mind her manners, at least for a while longer.

She tugs on their joined hands, and Jack follows her gamely into the dining room, pausing only to scoop her jacket up from the floor.


	7. Then Stare Him Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys so at this point i have acquired a pair of two-week-old foster puppies and started sleeping in 2-hour chunks between feedings. i am approximately 80% of the way to like... clinical death by exhaustion. this is probably affecting fic quality; if something is ridiculously off plz let me know thx

Dinner is quite probably the rowdiest meal to ever take place in the Lawson household. By some kind of terrible divine meddling - or, more likely, the assumption that she wouldn't attend - Miranda is seated three places down from her father, past her uncle, his wife, and Jack. Miranda is too far for him to be able to get at her without speaking unacceptably loudly, so he snipes at her uncle the entire meal instead. Her uncle, in turn, is short-tempered with his wife. By the time appetizers are cleared away, the whole head of the table is embroiled in an argument about the management of satellite companies and only good breeding has kept them from erupting into shouting.

Jack is seated to Miranda's left, and to her right is Tessica's fiancé, who starts glowering and blustering before Jack is even in her seat. Jack is more than happy to smirk at him around Miranda, keeping the looming fight at a healthy simmer. Miranda keeps one eye on the two of them and flustered, fluttering Tessica - she hopes they wait until after the meal to actually start fist fighting, but isn't counting on it. She'll need to move Tessica out of the fray once it starts; she feels fairly confident that Jack will be careful not to hit her, but she's not so sure about the fiancé.

Across from Miranda is her eldest cousin, old enough now to be seated at the adult table but too young to have anything to talk about. His father, her second uncle, has been drawn into Henry's argument, but Miranda is fairly certain that his wife, the newest - and youngest - in a series of four, is either drunk, high, or both. She looks glassy-eyed and each time food is set in front of her, she just sort of looks at it as if in confusion. Miranda catches her cousin giving Jack a hungry look and his girlfriend glaring at him, and sighs.

Still, Miranda would rather that than the staring coming her way from the rest of the table. They all know who she is, have at least some idea of what she's done, and all want to know more. In this house, the winners are the ones with the most information, and Miranda intends to share none of hers. Instead she smiles at them over her truffle and her ham, kisses Jack's hand over her tiny, absurd bird's nest full of caviar - which, surprisingly enough, Jack eats without comment - and then smiles some more as the massive turkey is delivered to the head of the table for Henry's approval.

He takes a break from berating his brothers to grunt his approval at the staff, who begin carving and serving the bird as the head waiter announces it to be a heritage turkey, on a bed of Wagyu beef, stuffed with some other ridiculous expensive things that Miranda can't be bothered to pay attention to because Jack is needling Tessica's fiancé again. She's apparently given up on egging the arguing brothers on and started describing the things she would do to Tessica if she were allowed. Miranda knows she's supposed to not be listening, even though Jack is murmuring these things directly behind her back, but it's getting a little absurd and the fiancé is getting closer to meltdown by the second.

She tugs on Jack's hand, bringing it over into her own lap and pressing it firmly down against her thigh. Sure enough, those big dark eyes are on hers in a flash, the impending fisticuffs promptly forgotten.

"Slow down," Miranda murmurs, "Wouldn't want you to miss your fancy, expensive turkey."

"I really wanna fight him!" Jack mutters in return. She does look excited at the size of the turkey and the pile of meat it rests upon, though, and settles back in her chair.

How she can still be eating, Miranda isn't sure. She's inhaling everything they place in front of her, and that's after eating more of the pre-dinner snacks than anyone else. Miranda is once again bitten by a twinge of jealousy; she spat back her father's notes about her body easily enough, but she's been going over and over those lines since she was sixteen. They're barely words to her at this point.

She looks down; the table is in the way but she can still feel her own thighs, soft and warm, pressing together. She knows that her thighs are perfectly normal, just like the rest of her body. She knows that her body is strong and healthy and can do all the things that she wants or needs it to, which should be enough. She knows a great many things, but so far that knowledge has had minimal impact on the undercurrent of distaste she feels every time she has to look at herself in the mirror.

She wishes she were wearing pants. She has managed to put the dress on and wear it all the way out here, but finds herself suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that when she stands up again, everyone is going to see her body in this dress...

Jack's hand, still resting on her thigh from a moment ago, gives a little squeeze, and Miranda looks up. Jack is looking at her with those dark whiskey eyes, clearly concerned, and Miranda feels vaguely like she'd like to cry now. She doesn't, of course. It's not a good substitute for feeling good about her body all by herself, but it does boost her confidence knowing that Jack obviously - publicly, shamelessly - appreciates her exactly as she is. She lifts Jack's hand from her leg to her mouth and kisses each tattooed knuckle one by one, watching Jack's gaze shift from worried to heated, before placing it right back where it had been. Well, maybe a little higher.

Jack's fingers dig into her thigh a little, nails biting just a touch and dimpling the soft flesh under her grasp, and her thumb brushes back and forth along the top of Miranda's leg. Miranda covers it, stops it, but she's too late; Jack is smirking like a cat with a mouthful of feathers and Miranda is once again in the mood to take her where she sits.

Instead, as has become their habit, they both look away. Miranda notices her father looking in their direction, and she smiles primly at him before picking up her fork and enjoying her food. He most certainly spent a fortune on it, so why shouldn't she? He scowls at her when she takes a hearty bite of the beef, which is of course exquisite, so she takes another. He's still frowning and the food is still delicious, so she tries the turkey as well, and soon she's eaten more of this course than she has of the rest of the meal put together.

The downside comes a little while later, when dessert is served. The waiter tells her all about it, of course, crème brûlée reimagined as a parfait, topped with a rare Japanese melon, etcetera, but all she can do is wish she hadn't had quite so much turkey. She gets exactly one very slow bite into the dish and gives up.

Jack is, of course, waiting with her spoon raised; hers is already gone. Miranda starts to slide it over, then catches her father still staring. Hasn't he go anything better to look at? So she decides to give him something to see. She dips her spoon back into the dessert and Jack's face falls. It brightens back up quickly enough, though, when Miranda lifts the morsel towards Jack's lips instead of her own.

She reaches for it and Miranda withdraws a little, teasing her, enjoying the expressive lines of her face and the purse of that full mouth. She really is a beautiful woman, Miranda muses, not to mention interesting and... unexpected.

Jack licks her lips, watching the spoon hovering nearby, and Miranda finds herself abruptly a little overwhelmed. Relenting and letting Jack have it is no better; Jack's lips wrap around the spoon in what has to be a deliberately provocative move, and all Miranda can think about is how that mouth felt against hers. How it might feel elsewhere.

Jack winks, and Miranda knows she must be turning pink but wants to keep going anyway. She spoons up another bite, feeds it to Jack without teasing her this time, and then nearly drops her spoon at the little noise of pleasure Jack makes. Both teenagers and half the adults are staring at them - one of the boys has his mouth literally hanging open, and Miranda can't keep herself from smiling. None of them will ever so much as touch this woman. Jack is hers.

Except she isn't, is she? Miranda sobers. This is a pretense. Despite the kisses and touches they've shared up to this point, despite the powerful and continuous electric energy between them, Jack is in this for the food and has been since the beginning. Her hand falters, hanging in the air halfway to its destination, and she searches Jack's face for... something. Even she isn't sure what.

Jack reaches out, takes Miranda's wrist, and guides the spoon into her own mouth.

"Hey," she says softly enough that Miranda thinks she's the only one who hears, then turns Miranda's hand over and kisses the inside of her wrist with just the slightest hint of teeth. Miranda feels a little faint. "Ask me if I'm enjoying dinner."

"Are you?" Miranda asks a little more sharply than she meant to. She feels a little bit raw, a little exposed. She doesn't want to sit here in front of her whole family, wondering if the whole day has been a job to Jack, just something she has to do to get her expensive Thanksgiving dinner.

"Yeah," Jack answers casually, finally releasing Miranda's hand. She winks. "But not as much as I'm going to enjoy what we get up to later tonight."

With that, she steals Miranda's dessert bowl outright and inhales the rest in what seems like one breath.


	8. And Leave Him Hanging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm fighting a losing battle with my tenses here, y'all. please drop me a line if something is egregiously wrong, i'm begging you, i can't proofread my own shit

Miranda spends what little remains of dinner and half the ride home proposing alternate meanings for Jack's words to herself. She doesn't even say goodbye to her father, and doesn't realize it until they're exiting the neighborhood. Just as well, she thinks fuzzily as she clings to Jack's back unnecessarily tightly for the low speed and watches the lights gleam from the studs of their matching jackets. It wouldn't do to let him think she cares about what he has to say.

She knows that they didn't have any plans after dinner, and it's obviously not drinks Jack is after or she would have stayed for absurdly expensive cocktails at Henry's house instead of goading Tessica's fiancé into finally throwing a punch at her. There's only one other logical option, but... no. Jack has been forward, but this is beyond that. Maybe she was being funny, or teasing Miranda, or putting on a show for the assembled guests.

But there has to be something more to the fact that she basically propositioned Miranda over dinner in front of her family. They've been flirting so incessantly over the past two weeks, online and in person, and honestly all she really wants to do at the moment was kiss Jack absolutely senseless.

But does she really want to have sex with her? It has been a while, she supposes, but is she really going to jump into bed with the first pretty girl who has smiled at her in weeks?

She isn't sure. She does have a tendency to get attached when she dates women, and alarmingly fast. Which is why she typically avoids it... but there's just something compelling about Jack. Which is absurd, considering that they don't even know each other.

What does she really know about Jack except that she prefers damage per second on a video game and that she is covered head to toe in tattoos and scars? Where do the scars even come from? How can she afford to be that completely covered in tattoos at twenty-four years old? Where does she live? South Park, that much she knows, but in a house, in an apartment, alone, with roommates?

Jack is smart, she knows that also, but Jack never mentions working or studying or anything else, and she has a caginess to her that Miranda knows and has seen before. There's some kind of secret there, something Jack doesn't want the whole world knowing about, and while Miranda knows all about secrets that have to be kept, she would also like to know at least a little more about Jack before they jump into bed.

Maybe she can just... casually send Jack on her way when they get back. She'll be disappointed - they both will, honestly - but Miranda knows she won't argue. Maybe she'll even message her again, maybe they'll date like normal people, get to know each other and grow closer naturally.

Or maybe she'll send Jack away and never see her again. She'll push Jack away, afraid of growing close to her, and Jack won't argue. Miranda will be relegated to a person she plays video games with, and maybe they'll be friends, but somehow she knows that Jack will take her rejection seriously and never try again. Which, honestly, feeling Jack's body against her front, feeling the shift and play of the muscles under her tank top, would be a huge waste of a beautiful body. She remembers her glimpse of Jack's frame fondly, the sharp jut of her hipbones and the slight give of her love handles, the thin layer of softness that covers her belly, concealing the presence of hard muscle beneath.

Jack takes a turn a little too sharply for Miranda's comfort, racing past a yellow light, and she gasps and clings tighter despite herself. Jack seems like a good driver, and has never done anything blatantly illegal or unsafe while Miranda is on the bike, but she does push the envelope just a bit. Miranda ticks off attributes in her head; thorough, careful but not overcautious, obviously not terribly concerned with her own well-being... but concerned with Miranda's, enough that she'd gone out and gotten a helmet for today.

Well, assuming she hadn't already had the helmet and simply declined to wear it. That is a possibility, but somehow she doubts Jack is the sort to hang onto stuff she doesn't actually need or use.

So Jack is careful, thorough, cares about others but not herself, is either deeply thrifty or truly poor, and knows how to fix a motorcycle. Smart, quick on the uptake, sarcastic but not to the point of meanness, knows how to deal drugs. Was an actual drug dealer at some point in her past, but has reformed. Apparently. She's strong and healthy, with clear eyes and good teeth, and gets tested regularly. But what does she do? Where is she from? For some reason those are the questions that are sticking out in Miranda's mind, and although she knows it's not fair - it's not like she can tell Jack anything about her own work or the circumstances of her... birth, so why should Jack be obligated to share? Still, she just wants to know.

She decides to invite Jack up to her apartment when they get back, but not for sex. She's going to put on her most comfortable, unsexy pajamas and they're going to talk. Maybe drink a little, but not too much - she has every intention of sending Jack home at the end of the night, sober and alone. She's going to ask all the questions she hasn't bothered with until now, she's going to get to know Jack, and she is absolutely not going to sleep with her. At least not tonight.

That resolution lasts right up until they're parked under Miranda's building and Jack is standing there looking nothing short of edible in the red glow of the impending sunset. She stretches and the tank top stretches with her, but backlit like this it reverts to being see-through. Miranda watches the play of muscle and the shifting of tattooed skin for a second before she has to look away, ruining her carefully-planned casual invitation.

"Would you like to come up?" She mumbles, then forces herself to speak up when Jack looks at her inquisitively. "It's still early, I thought we could talk."

Jack doesn't answer right away, and Miranda continues hurriedly, suddenly afraid that she'll leave.

"Maybe watch a movie or play something. A game. I feel like I barely know you, and I... I want to." She's cursing herself for an idiot before she even finishes speaking. Hadn't she been seriously thinking about sending Jack away herself just a few moments ago? Why, then, is she basically throwing herself at Jack's feet at the first sign that Jack might, in fact, choose to go home?

"Sure," Jack says at length, and her voice is low and soft. Miranda isn't sure what to read into it. "That sounds nice."

They walk silently into the elevator and stand arms' length apart; the space feels too small, although logically she knows it's actually quite spacious. It's warm, and Miranda fidgets with the sleeves of her jacket and wonders if she should take it off, but isn't sure if she trusts herself with taking anything off in front of Jack. The temptation is too strong.

Jack keeps her hands and eyes to to herself, though, and barely looks at Miranda as they ride up. It's a far cry from her touchy, flirty, even outright seductive personality from earlier in the day, and Miranda isn't sure what to make of that, either.

She fumbles with her keys and almost drops them, but manages to open the door without too much embarrassment. She ushers Jack inside, slips off her shoes, and only just manages to stop herself before rushing off to the bedroom. Jack hasn't moved since she stepped inside, but somehow Miranda imagines that letting her in and then heading straight for the bedroom might send signals that she's already decided she's not planning to send tonight.

"I'm going to go change out of this, put on some pajamas or something. You can, uh..." She realizes abruptly that Jack has nothing else to wear aside from the clothes she arrived wearing this morning. "You can borrow some pajamas, if you want? I mean, if you want to. I'm not asking you to stay the night. I just thought..." she trails off lamely, then forces herself to finish the sentence. She needs Jack to know what they are and are not doing. "You might like to be comfortable while we chat."

Jack gives her an odd look, then smiles. It's a small, soft thing that Miranda hasn't seen on her before, and it's yet another thing she doesn't know how to interpret. She's getting tired of it.

"Sure," Jack finally answers, and bends to take her boots off.

Miranda retreats to her bedroom in the meantime and rifles through her pajama drawer for something she remembers being a little small on her. She finds some cotton pants, pairs them with an oversized t-shirt, and decides that this will suit Jack fine.

Jack seems to be in agreement, mumbling a quick 'cool, thanks' as she accepts them and pads over to the guest room in her socks. Miranda steps back into her room and closes the door.

This dress is getting to be suffocating, and she's more than ready to be finished with showing off her thighs. She peels the thing off, doing her best to keep the grunting at a minimum as she struggles to remove the clinging fabric. It does come off eventually, though, and she tosses it carelessly on the bed.

Then she picks it right back up and puts it in the laundry hamper; whether or not she hates the thing is immaterial, she can't tolerate the mess. Her panties follow it, and she's tempted to take another shower but can't really be bothered right this moment. She'll just wash her makeup off in the bathroom and call it good enough, at least for tonight. From the bottom of the pajama drawer, she digs up an ancient pair of pajama pants and the matching button up shirt; they're both a little big on her now, but they're familiar and comfortable, and just the right amount of ratty. If there's any outfit in the world that can make it completely clear that sexy is the absolute last thing she wants to be, this is it: old, soft, pilled-up blue flannel pajamas. She pulls the drawstring tight around her waist, buttons the shirt all the way to the collar, and pulls on a soft pair of socks. Only after a few deep breaths and a thorough check of herself in the mirror does she finally feel ready to head out into the living room.

Jack is there, kneeling in front of the display case of movies and looking something very much like adorable in her borrowed pajamas. The loose cotton hangs off of her lean frame, the pants cinched tight around her waist and the hems covering her feet. She smiles warmly at Miranda, more relaxed than she's looked all day, and Miranda's heart clenches a little.

She still wants Jack, still finds her gorgeous and enticing, but somehow she thinks she's made the right choice to slow whatever this thing is down a little.

Jack holds up a movie case, wiggling it a little in Miranda's direction. "Sorry for going through your stuff, but you did mention movies and I figured you'd probably have a good collection."

"Not really," Miranda replies with a laugh, "But I do have Netflix. The remote is on the shelf below the television."

She leaves Jack to it and ducks into the bathroom, settling into her evening routine as a shelter against the stress of the day. She washes away the makeup, applies her toner, moisturizes - lightly, since she's not headed to bed just yet - and then gives herself another long look in the mirror. She looks normal, she thinks, and not at all sexy, and it's not like Jack can judge her for appearing without makeup.

She returns to the living room, plopping ungracefully down on the couch, and abruptly wishes she'd thought to wear a bra when everything... moves. Jack's not looking, though, so she tugs the blanket from the back of the couch over herself and settles in with her back against the armrest and her feet on the center cushion.

"Find anything you like?"

"Nah," Jack replies, standing up with the remote in one hand and tugging at the waistband of her pants with the other; even pulled tight they're still threatening to slip down her narrow hips. "You watch too many weird artsy things. I'll try Netflix."

"Well, please accept my apologies for my sophisticated taste in movies. What do you like?"

"I like action movies, but they're mostly like... unbelievable. Do you know the odds of that many people firing that many bullets and nobody getting hit? Ridiculous."

Startled, Miranda laughs. She's never met anybody else who critiques movies the way she does.

"I know!" she replies, shaking her head. "And then when they do get hit, it's in the shoulder or something and everyone's telling them it's nothing serious, they'll be fine, at least it wasn't your chest. Have any of them actually injured a shoulder? Because it isn't fine at all!"

"Right? I know it's weird, but it's so hard to believe in the story when they're just throwing all this completely wrong shit at the wall to see what sticks. And the car stunts, fuck. Don't even talk to me about those. I usually watch movies alone... nobody to get mad at me for heckling."

Miranda shakes her head.

"I promise not to get upset if you heckle. I may join in, honestly. I do have a habit of talking to the screen when I'm alone."

Jack's smile is almost incandescent, and Miranda adds things to her list of Jack's attributes: attentive to detail, yells at movies, is beautiful when she smiles. Smiles a lot when they find something in common.

"Action movie it is," Jack says to herself, scrolling through the screen, "I haven't seen this one, let's try it. Sound good?"

"It sounds fine."

Jack sets down the remote, turns sideways on the couch so that her feet are resting alongside Miranda's, and the opening credits start. They settle into companionable silence.


	9. Forget About Him

Jack finds herself stealing glances at Miranda just a few minutes into the movie. It's pretty standard action-movie fare, the kind of thing she always watches when she needs something just a little distracting to help her think. Well, except that this time she's not entirely certain that she does, in fact, want to think.

She felt the way Miranda tensed up when her father asked where Jack was from; Jack may have had a lifetime of experience in deflecting questions about herself or her family and all related topics, but that has mostly worked based on the fact that she rarely gets close to anyone and when she does, it's with people who completely understand the desire to pretend that she didn't exist before age sixteen.

Miranda... well, Jack has an inkling that she didn't exactly have an idyllic childhood either, but for her talking about it is probably a way of coping, of fighting back. She told her father about the schedules, confronted him with something he'd done to her and - presumably - came away stronger.

Jack doesn't have that option. Talking about her life won't help her; there's nobody left to confront except herself, and she's put herself through enough pain that she's pretty sure she's sorry. She can't tell Miranda that, though, not without telling her the rest of the story. Well, she could, theoretically, but it would only confuse the situation more.

She stares at the screen blankly, wondering what to do, what to say. How does she explain her dumpster fire of a childhood to Miranda?

It shouldn't be this difficult, right? She's told the story dozens of times already to various therapists, psychiatrists, grad students and post-docs, and that one undergrad developmental psychology class. But that's... different, somehow. Yes, people who hear it are always a mixture of fascinated and horrified, and yes they've asked good questions, bad questions, and even a few questions that she refused to answer, but at the end of they day they're professionals or professionals-to-be, and they're writing books and papers and diagnostic manuals. They're not, like... hanging out.

There's a measure of distance there that she just doesn't have with Miranda, and she doesn't really know how to handle it.

One man on the screen cocks his handgun, another pulls back the slide on his automatic, and Miranda scoffs at both of them.

"We all know guns don't work like that," she grumbles at the television, and Jack can't help but smile despite everything. A woman after her own heart.

"I know," she agrees, "If only they showed the really ridiculous part where they un-cock it to get that sound."

Miranda turns to her, one eyebrow raised. Damn, she didn't think real people could do that.

"What do you mean?" Miranda asks, and Jack gets a little thrill in her chest, a little excited electric buzz that fizzes in her chest somewhere. She's never really had a relationship like this, where somebody hangs out with her and asks her questions other than 'wanna bang?' or 'what is your worst childhood memory?' It's nice.

Still, she tries to remember not to talk too long about it. Nobody likes a hyperfixation.

"Well, modern handguns cock the hammer automatically after firing. It's faster and easier. So to get it to make that noise on anything other than, say, a vintage six-shooter, you would actually have to deliberately un-cock the gun."

Miranda shakes her head, grinning a little.

"Even more ridiculous than I thought."

"The automatic is worse though," Jack continues before she can stop herself, but Miranda only looks interested, not annoyed, so Jack keeps talking.

"Automatics like that have slides, not hammers. To get the cool noise, they pump the slide. But all that does is eject the bullet in the chamber. It already does that automatically after the gun is fired, though, so that was a good, unfired bullet that just hit the floor. And most of them have, like, thirty bullets total. One good burst and it's empty."

Before Jack is even done, a whole group of bad guys all cock their guns at the same time, then proceed to start spraying bullets everywhere.

"That's a lot more than thirty bullets, Miranda comments dryly, and Jack quips back before she even stops to think.

"Well most guys do like to pretend they can go a lot longer than they actually can."

At first, she thinks she imagines it, but then it comes again. The most unladylike sound she's ever heard, somewhere between a snort and a cough, coming out of Miranda.

First she stares, then she bursts out laughing. This, of course, only prompts Miranda to laugh harder and makes her snort again. It's a feedback loop, and within moment they're both breathless from laughing.

"It's not funny," Miranda tries to protest between bouts of laughter, and Jack shakes her head. There are tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and she can't quite form words.

"It's not _that_ funny," Miranda corrects, still laughing, wrapping her arms around her waist as if to hold in her mirth.

Now on that count, Jack acknowledges - in her head, since the rest of her is occupied with laughing - on that count, Miranda is right. Her dumbass joke was somewhat funny, but definitely not good enough to account for both of them screaming like hyenas and rolling around on Miranda's couch.

But it feels good to laugh, and it releases some of the tension between them, so she just lets herself enjoy the moment while it lasts. On the television, the good guys and bad guys are doing whatever it is that they do, this time with a helicopter.

Eventually, the laughter begins to die down and they both begin to settle back against the couch. Miranda sits up when she laughs, Jack notes idly as she wipes the tears from her eyes again. Jack, on the other hand, slouches. As a result she's practically laying down, her feet stretched all the way over to the other side of the couch where Miranda sits with her knees pulled up to her chin, face buried in them as she gets her breathing back under control.

"It really wasn't that funny," she manages, but her voice is still full of suppressed laughter.

"I'm not arguing," Jack replies, "But it feels good to laugh, so just go with it." Miranda is silent for a moment, then finally lifts her face. She's still smiling a little, but her eyes are clear and sharp.

"It does feel good," she says softly, letting go of her legs with one hand to reach down and pat Jack's shin. "But I think the company has something to do with it."

Jack tenses up; she's heard lines upon lines, and this is definitely one. She doesn't want to think that Miranda just wants her body, not after all this, but she's been surprised before by the lengths people will go to just to pretend that they're not like the other assholes who just want the thrill of a hot lay with a scary woman. She tries to reply casually, jokingly, but can hear the tension and suspicion in her own voice, can feel her teeth clenched tight.

"Just trying to get me into bed, huh?"

"Nope," Miranda answers cheerfully, patting Jack's leg again. Her gaze is back on the television, and she doesn't appear to notice whatever Jack's face is doing at the moment. "At least not tonight. As attractive as you are and as fun as I'm sure it would be-"

"The best you ever had!" Jack interrupts in a deliberately exaggerated tone of voice, puffing her chest out. Why, she doesn't know. But it's easier to joke knowing that Miranda isn't playing with her, and levity feels important right now.

"As fun as I'm sure it would be," Miranda repeats firmly, giving Jack a fond glance and a small smile, "I actually like you for some reason, and I'd like to get to know you before we do anything. If we do anything."

It feels, abruptly, like there's a heavy lump sitting just under Jack's sternum, and her eyes prick with tears that have nothing to do with laughing too hard. She's not completely sure what they do have to do with, isn't sure what this emotion is that's welling up into her throat, but think it's a good thing.

She looks down at her knees, folds her hands between her thighs and sucks in a slow, deep breath. And then another, and a third and fourth, until she thinks she might be able to articulate herself. And just in time; when she looks up again, Miranda is looking at her quizzically.

Jack grabs the remote and pauses the movie mid-hostage situation. She fiddles with the remote before forcing herself to set it down and lacing her fingers together instead.

"It's, um," she starts, and immediately stumbles and has to pause again. She looks away from Miranda's eyes; they're too much at this particular moment. "It's been a long time since... since somebody just wanted to... not talk to me, people always want to talk to me, but get to know me. I, um. I haven't had a... good life. And getting to know me is going to involve knowing about that and how it," she doesn't say 'fucked me up', because she has to believe that the situation was fucked up, not her. She's still growing and healing and she's not fucked up. "How it impacted me," she finishes weakly.

Miranda just sits there, still and quiet, her hand still resting on Jack's leg. Jack rushes to get the words out; her skin is buzzing, and she knows that if she keeps thinking about talking instead of actually talking, she's going to have a panic attack.

"And part of it's not my fault, but part of it was that, well, it's easier to just say fuck it, not deal with anything, and do whatever instead of working past the bad stuff. I'm trying to do the hard thing nowadays, since - well, somebody I cared about died because of me not wanting to deal with my shit."

She takes a deep breath. Her hands are clasped so tightly together that it hurts and she can feel the tingling in her nose and mouth that means she's hyperventilating, but she has to get it out.

"I was a trafficked child, kiddie pit fights. They would drug us and train us and force us to fight for the boss. Kill for him. Condition us to enjoy it, so we'd fight harder and win more. So when I said I don't know where I'm from, it was because I literally don't. I also don't know how old I really am, or what my original name was. I didn't deal with it for a long time after getting out, because I would just tell myself it could've been worse, right? Because they wanted me for fighting, not sex. So anytime I felt bad about my own shit, I would feel worse because it wasn't worse, and I've been in, like... intense fucking therapy for four years and I'm still not really coping so great. I just," she forces her hands to unclasp, rubbing them together and then covering her face. Tries to control her breathing so she doesn't wind up blurting all that out and then passing out. "I just wanted to get that out, so you know. Ahead of time. If you still want to hang out."

Miranda is quiet for a long, long time. The only things Jack can hear are the faint noises of the apartment and her own breathing. She counts out her breaths by sevens, steady and careful, until her face stops tingling. Then she finally manages to peek over her fingers. Miranda looks... thoughtful. Jack just feels wrung out, and she's barely scratched the surface of the things she's talked about in therapy. Maybe it's just easier when doesn't know the other person and doesn't care what they think of her.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, unable to hold it in any longer, and Miranda smiles at her a little, but she looks sad.

"How much alike we really are," comes the unexpected answer. "Molded by powerful men into tools for their use. I was... and I've never told this to anyone at all. I don't even know how to phrase it. I was... a test-tube baby, in the most literal sense. Genetic engineering, designer babies, whatever you want to call it, my entire genetic makeup comes from Henry. I was supposed to be his legacy, and he didn't want to share me with another parent."

"How-" Jack starts before she can think better of it, then closes her mouth. Miranda just chuckles dryly.

"I suppose when you're richer than god you can play the part. And then it was just me, and him, and the most expensive nannies and tutors and prep schools that money could buy. I had personal trainers, study coaches, an assistant, and literally anything I ever asked for. But you know, I just didn't know. There were some things nobody ever told me. I didn't know that his schedules and his requirements weren't normal, that my access to information was limited, directed towards his plans for me. I didn't know what his plans were, or his ideologies, or... a lot of things. I'm sorry," she says abruptly, lifting her hand from Jack's leg to press it to her own face.

"I've actually never told anybody this. I didn't find out until I was sixteen, when I was digging through Henry's files for blackmail information. My timing was lucky, though, because that's when he was in the planning stages of making me a sister. One without my flaws, you see."

"Let me guess," Jack mutters, the lump back in her chest, "You were scheduled for an accident."

"No, actually," Miranda laughs, but it's bitter and her eyes are downcast. "It would have been too messy, you see. As sheltered as I was, there were no convincing ways to have me killed without any suspicion falling on my- on Henry. Instead, he downgraded me - instead of taking over his companies, I was to serve them. Law school, so I could be a company attorney, and then marry one of this business partners' children. He even had plans in there for how to... convince me, if I proved unwilling."

Jack processes for a moment, then frowns.

"So when he was talking about you taking 'her', that was..."

"My sister, yes. I took her when she was just over a year old, and ran away. I had to get her out. He already had 'tutors' for her, always around, so she'd grow up multilingual. She wasn't allowed to eat until she said a new word; he wanted her speaking sentences by eighteen months."

"What did you do with her?"

Miranda's gaze is so sharp that Jack flinches back from it, instinctively holding up her hands defensively.

"Hey, fuck, I was just asking. If you don't wanna share, don't share."

Miranda softens a little, but looks away.

"It's not about wanting. It's not even about trust. I just... can't. I can't risk it."

"Works for me," Jack replies softly, and they fall silent. After a few minutes, she hits play on the remote, and they let the movie finish playing in comfortable silence.


	10. And Just Relax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all i don't care if your comments are like 'nice' or 'shane that is way too many ellipses, cool it' please just comment i am tired and it makes me so happy

The pillow moves, and Jack wakes with a start. She rolls off the bed and onto the ground, crouching with one arm raised defensively and the other pulled back into a fist and ready to strike. She must've dropped her knife while she was sleeping, but it's okay. She's ready for them.

A few seconds later, when her brain finishes booting up, she realizes a couple of things. Firstly, the thing moving was not a pillow, because she was not laying on a bed - she was laying on Miranda. They must have fallen asleep on the couch.

Secondly, Miranda has adopted a similar defensive stance. Hers is a little tighter and more refined, probably the result of formal training, but by the slightly dazed look on her face it looks like she's not awake yet either. Interesting that a sheltered rich girl would react that way on instinct, but Jack - despite being a little wired now, after the rush of adrenaline - is still too sleepy to examine the thought any further.

Instead, she lowers her hands slowly and deliberately, drops out of her crouch until she's just sitting on the floor, wishing she were still asleep. Miranda blinks sleepily at her a couple of times and then lowers her own hands as well. Her hair is a tousled mess, her mouth is slightly open, and her big t-shirt is slipping off of one shoulder. She looks like something right off a porn site, except with bleary eyes and a red patch on her cheek where - Jack assumes - she had propped her face up on one hand.

"Gotta pee, be right back." Miranda mumbles, and her accent suddenly dips from slightly Australian-flavored to pure down-under as she stumbles away towards the bathroom. It's cute but a little disconcerting, and definitely does not help with the slightly surreal feeling as Jack just sits there on the floor feeling fuzzy, with the world spinning lazily around her. The clock says two in the morning; they've been sleeping for a couple hours, which is just odd. On her own she'd just be going to bed now.

She stares at the disheveled couch to try and stop the weird exhausted wobbling feeling, but she kind of wants to crawl back onto it and go back to sleep. Then again, she also kind of wants to not do that because Miranda isn't there, being all warm and soft. Well, the couch is pretty comfortable, and there's a blanket too, but...

The toilet flushes, the sink runs, and then Miranda is standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame as if to steady herself, looking almost startled to find herself there. She holds out her other hand towards Jack.

"Bed?" she asks, and the tired confusion in her voice takes her from sex symbol to adorable in the span of one word. Jack just stares for a second, feeling sort of drunk as her brain very slowly churns through the available data. Point one: she is very, very tired. Point two: Miranda was - is, presumably - very warm and comfortable to sleep next to. Or on. And finally, point three: Miranda is planning to go sleep in her bed, and is apparently inviting Jack along.

There should be alarms going off in Jack's head right now. There should be a million questions flying back and forth, like does she want to sleep with Miranda like this, like they're an old comfortable married couple, when she's never shared a bed with another person in her life? Try as she might, though, she can't think of any others. And those data points are pretty compelling.

"Yes," she answers firmly, levering herself up off the floor and taking Miranda's outstretched hand. Together, they stumble into Miranda's room and collapse on the bed with just a bit of sleepy snorting and grumbling. A few seconds lapse before they begin a coordinated wiggling effort to pull up the blankets and cuddle up together, all without sitting up or opening their eyes.

When Jack falls back to sleep, it's with her face nestled in Miranda's throat and their legs intertwined.

She stays that way for the rest of the night, and wakes up more gradually the second time, her body warm and relaxed and her nose filled with the same scent that she recalls Miranda wearing earlier. Well, yesterday. The room is bright beyond her closed eyelids, so she assumes it's morning. Black Friday, the sane person's day to hunker down at home doing absolutely nothing.

Luckily, she's never been more comfortable in her life, and is full prepared to stay right here for the foreseeable future while all the shoppers murder each other down at the mall.

Not even a minute later, her bladder decides to lodge an opinion about this plan, and Jack curses and squirms and generally fights it for about fifteen seconds before finally launching herself from the nice warm bed with a nice hot 'fuck!' and hustling for the bathroom.

When she comes back Miranda is laying on her side, propped up on one elbow with the wide neck of her shirt once more revealing the curve of a pale shoulder. She gives a small, fond smile in Jack's direction, and Jack draws up short. She feels a little like she's been stabbed. Or maybe set on fire, the way the heat suddenly bubbles up in her blood.

"Uh, hey." She mumbles awkwardly, standing at the side of the bed and wondering if it's really a good idea to get back in there. Miranda flips back the covers and pats the bed's surface invitingly, and Jack has to swallow and avert her gaze before she gets caught looking too long at the way that... certain anatomical features... shift.

Which is to say, she's trying not to stare at Miranda's tits as they swing with the motion of pushing the covers back, obviously confined by nothing more than the ratty old flannel shirt. Jack's not sure how she failed to notice this last night, and wonders how out of she had to be to miss something this amazing.

"So, uh," Jack tries again, "What are the plans for today?"

Miranda scoffs.

"It's Black Friday, so I primarily plan to avoid death by staying indoors until at least early afternoon."

Despite herself, Jack is startled into a laugh. It's easy to forget, apparently, that Miranda does have a sense of humor and that it aligns surprisingly well with Jack's. Everything about her, really, lines up just about perfectly - she pushes so many of Jack's buttons that if they'd met under any other circumstances... well, she'd probably have bent Miranda over something and then never spoken to her again. So maybe it's good that they came together in this weird roundabout way.

"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" she teases. Inwardly she knows she's being ridiculous, playing flirty while standing there afraid to get back into bed and see where the morning goes, but that's Jack: incorrigible and incomprehensible, even to herself.

What she's not prepared for, though, is Miranda's reply, or the frankly suggestive tone of voice it's delivered in:

"Well, if you'd get back into bed you'd find out."

Jack nearly chokes on her own tongue, and Miranda bursts out laughing. She flops down onto her back, and Jack absolutely does not stare at her breasts. Well, not much. Not for long, anyway.

"Gotcha," Miranda chirps, and Jack reaches down, picks up a pillow, and throws it right at her face.

Miranda shrieks, and with that the war is on. She picks up her own pillow and throws it back at Jack, hitting her square in the face with a vicious puff of air escaping the fluffy rectangle.

"I am gonna take you down!" Jack crows, leaping onto the bed on her knees and beginning to batter at Miranda with her own fluffy weaponry. She keeps her strikes light on purpose; she assumes Miranda can take a hit, but lurking under the surface of every friendly tussle, every fistbump, even every exceptionally athletic roll in the hay is Jack's childhood conditioning. Eight years she's been working on it, and she still isn't sure where her brain draws the line between playing and fighting, or what might send her over the edge into battle-frenzy. The therapists are always very reassuring, but they're not the ones living in fear of accidentally losing their shit and beating somebody to death.

Either Miranda senses her hesitancy, remembers her talking about her childhood 'training', or both, because she's equally gentle and playful even as she knocks Jack over and pins her in place with a pillow on her chest.

"Do you yield?" She asks haughtily, apparently feeling quite secure where she kneels astride Jack's narrow hips.

"Not in a million fucking years," Jack laughs, giving a quick buck of her hips that has dislodged many a bedmate. To her infinite surprise, though, Miranda just sits back on her thighs and doesn't go anywhere at all.

"Nice try," Miranda says with a smirk, releasing her pillow to dramatically smooth the collar of her shirt, "But you're going to need much better moves if you think you're going to defeat me."

It's all a little overwhelming: the heat and weight of Miranda on her thighs and hips, the way her chest heaves with laughter and exertion, the brightness of her eyes and the toss of her tousled hair, the cocky smirk that twists her lips.

At least, that's the excuse that Jack will give later, if anybody asks why she sits up, grabbing the back of Miranda's neck with one hand and her lapel with the other, and pulls her down for a deep, thorough kiss.


	11. Then Later On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i'm at 48,860 words for november, but i think this story has at least one more chapter in it so i'm gonna keep at it
> 
> as usual, this is written nano-style, meaning i have not edited except by writing more, so if something is really fucked up please let me know thx
> 
> oh and thank y'all so much for your comments!!!! they have been my life support

Jack's mouth is just as hot and wet as Miranda remembers, her lips just as full and soft, and Miranda falls easily into kissing her. There's some feeling of freeness to it now that she relishes; they're not building a fantasy or performing for an audience, just kissing because they want to. Because they want each other.

Miranda throws her pillow away, bending down as Jack pulls on her. They kiss hard, mouths and bodies smashing together, and Jack's hands slither around Miranda's waist and up the back of her shirt, nails raking lightly against her back. In response, Miranda cups one hand around Jack's neck at the base of her skull and pulls her closer. The stubble of Jack's hair prickles against her fingers and she digs her nails in, feeling Jack moan against her mouth.

She pulls away just a bit, panting against Jack's lips and looking into those wide brown eyes, pupils blown and lit from within as if by fire. Miranda wants to draw that fire out of her, wants to unleash the power she can feel coiled up into the wiry body below her.

"Harder," Miranda hisses, then bites Jack's lower lip firmly, pulls on it as Jack gives a low groan.

Jack's nails dig into her back, hands grasping at her sides as if for dear life, and bolts of electricity arc through Miranda's body, leaving her shaking with need. Miranda's free hand cups the side of Jack's face, thumb stroking the sharp line of her cheekbone encouragingly as she dives back into Jack's mouth.

The longer they kiss, though, the more she knows she needs to put a pause on this before it gets out of hand. Then one of Jack's hands starts to toy with the waistband of her pajama pants, and she finally has to pull away. She takes the wandering hand and moves it back to her waist; Jack doesn't resist, but those big dark eyes are wide and a little hurt. Miranda can only assume she doesn't know why they're stopping. Still, the fact that she's clearly understood that they are in fact stopping and hasn't protested is a big mark in her favor.

She looks so sad though, and a little confused like she's done something wrong but doesn't know what. Miranda can't resist bending down to give her one last peck. Just for reassurance, she tells herself, even though she knows it's a lie. She just wants to keep kissing Jack.

But first...

She sits back on Jack's thighs, holding both tattooed hands to her waist until she's sure Jack isn't letting go. She doesn't want to put an end to this, at least not yet, and wants to make that clear to Jack as well.

"I want to do this," she reassures Jack, "I promise. But before we... go any further," she stumbles briefly, but picks up the thread and charges forward.

"I have... issues, with consent and with control over my body. I think we both do," she glances down at Jack for confirmation and receives a small nod in response. She thinks she sees some nervousness in the tight cord of Jack's throat, but the woman is absurdly hard to read when she wants to be. "I want to talk about that, among other things. I really like you," she confesses in a rush, then feels herself blushing and rushes forward to try to defuse the comment a little. "I think we could be good together and I want that, so I just don't want it to be ruined because I don't know what's alright for you, and you don't know what's alright for me. I want to get to know you."

She pauses. She's rehearsed this whole thing, thought about what she wants to ask, what she wants to say. It's both easier and harder than she thought it might be. Easier to get the words out, but harder to actual keep saying words instead of putting her hands on Jack. But she really does believe in the possibility of whatever this thing is that they have, and she's not going to sacrifice it to her own impatience. Well, any more than she's currently doing, given that the original plan was to get to know each other out of bed first.

"So we need to talk about consent, protection, where or what is off-limit, things like that. I know this isn't the most exciting, but it's really important to me and we're not doing anything else before we talk about it." No matter how much she wants to. Jack hasn't made any move to speak, but she also hasn't pulled away. She's just laying there, watching Miranda with those unreadable eyes and making her both anxious and unexpectedly turned-on. She pushes on.

"I get tested every six months, and unless we're going to be exclusive for the long term, I expect you to do the same. I use barrier protection for all sex, and it's non-negotiable except, theoretically, in the same long-term exclusive relationship scenario. We talk out what's good and what's off-limits first, but just in case we miss something, safewords are always in effect and are absolute." She pauses, waiting for Jack to give some kind of response. She really, really wants Jack to be on board with this, wants to believe that Jack of all people will understand why this is important to her beyond just a belief in safer sex.

Jack is quiet for a minute, but Miranda can see her eyes flicking here and there, not focused on anything in particular; she's thinking. After a while, she nods.

"I get you," she says simply enough, but there's a hardness to her expression, some kind of echo of past pain, that makes Miranda worry that she's somehow already tripped over one of Jack's lines. She wants to kiss the little furrow from between Jack's eyebrows, smooth it and whatever hurt she's thinking about away. She refrains, but only just, and has to start talking again to keep herself from thinking about it anymore.

"I'm not trying to be a downer," she tries to explain, fumbling for some way to salvage the situation. "Or ruin the mood. I just-"

Before she can finish the sentence, though, Jack interrupts.

"Hey," she says softly but firmly, squeezing Miranda's hips a little. Her eyes are still big and dark and a little hard, but there's a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips and she doesn't look quite so hurt anymore. "It's okay. I'm not gonna run off screaming, you don't have to look so worried. This is new to me, but I get it, and I'm good with it."

It's like a bubble pops somewhere inside her; Miranda can feel some of the tension draining out of her body in a rush as an answering smile tugs at her lips. She hasn't ruined it, and that's a little bit of a giddy feeling.

"I was prepared to do quite a bit of explaining and convincing, you know," she teases, too relieved to be completely serious now that the hard part is out of the way.

"You're always prepared to explain," Jack responds equally cheekily, "You nerd."

"The audacity!" She declares in mock outrage, slapping Jack's shoulder.

"You tried to explain DPS to me!" Which is not untrue, but in her own defense Jack was playing a much more RPG-like tank style than a proper DPS, and Miranda wanted to help her.

"Well, you were doing it wrong!"

Miranda realizes somewhat belated that this is, perhaps, not the best way to defend herself.

Jack doesn't say anything, though. Her only response is to lock gazes with Miranda and slowly, deliberately, bend one knee. Her thigh slots directly between Miranda's legs and presses firmly against her, just for a moment. The heat pooling in her belly, which had slowly cooled as they spoke, roars back to life. She gasps, quite against her will, and Jack gives her a textbook shit-eating grin.

"How's that for doing it wrong?"

"Ass," Miranda responds primly, but does climb off of Jack's lap. Instead, she settles with her back against the headboard so that they're side by side. Jack scoots up until she's sitting as well, then holds out her hand. Miranda takes it, turns it over in her grasp, and places a kiss on each of the tattooed knuckles. This time Jack is the one who gasps, then turns an accusing look on Miranda. She's only too happy to respond with her own wicked grin.

"Ass," Jack grumbles, and Miranda laughs and kisses the back of her hand this time.

"Yes, kissing your hand is the very definition of something an ass would do."

"I'll kick your... you can kiss my ass!" Jack stumbles over some way to turn that into an insult, and Miranda can't help but laugh. It's not what she would really call adorable, given that Jack is a lean mass of violence and ink, but it is endearing. As odd as it is, she really does care for this strange woman who she barely knows.

"Only if you put it on the list of things I'm allowed to do to you."

"Yeah, sure, whatever. How do we do this, anyway? I mean, if I just list off things I like, how are you going to remember them all?"

Miranda shrugs, hoping to come off nonchalant despite the extensive preparation she's done.

"Well, there are several ways, I suppose. There are surveys and things that ask you what you like or don't like, we can talk about specific off-limits things and general things you typically like and then sort of work the rest out as we go, or I imagine we could start blind and play a sort of red light, green light."

Jack raises her eyebrows and gives Miranda a long look, then sighs dramatically.

"You already filled out a survey and you have a blank one waiting in this room right now, don't you."

She does.

"I do."

Jack laughs and pulls Miranda's hand up to her mouth this time, kissing the inside of her wrist and then letting it drop.

"Hand it over, you loser. It's a good thing you're such a good fucking sniper, or I wouldn't want to fuck you nearly as bad as I do."

"That's a lie and you know it!"

She does shimmy up to her knees and reach over Jack and into the night stand, though, retrieving the clipboard. It comes complete with a fresh copy of the same questionnaire as she's already completed, and a working pen. She tested just yesterday before Jack arrived.

She wonders, as she does an awkward one-handed backwards crawl so that she's no longer on hands and knees over Jack's lap, if she's coming off a little... well, eager.

"You also have fantastic tits," Jack comments while the aforementioned body parts are right in front of her face.

Miranda plops back down into her previous seated position. With her free hand, she reaches out and grabs her discarded pillow, then hits Jack right in the face with it before dropping the survey in her lap.

"Hey!"

Jack laughs and reaches for her, the clipboard tumbling off of her lap, but Miranda scrambles off the bed from the other side and stands with her fists planted on her hips. She's trying very, very hard not to laugh.

"Just for that you can fill your survey out all by yourself!"

Still laughing, Jack crawls over the mattress towards her, but Miranda steps back again and Jack ends up laying facedown across the width of the bed, clipboard trapped under one leg.

"You suck," she manages between chuckles, still reaching weakly towards Miranda, her hands waving uselessly in the air.

"Only sometimes," she answers, one hand pressed to her mouth to hold back her own laughter. "You'd know that if you'd read my questionnaire answers."

"Whatever!" Jack declares dramatically before doing some sort of absurd wiggle as she retrieves the clipboard from under her leg without actually moving from her facedown position. She holds it in front of her face over the edge of the bed, flipping the pages up and groaning.

"This is like two hundred questions!"

"Luckily for you, you lazy brat, you can skip entire sections based on your anatomy. Now I'm going to go take a shower and... freshen up, while you do that."

"Fine," Jack grumbles, already starting to mark off answers. "Just leave some bush for me."

Miranda picks up a pillow from the floor, where it was discarded during their first pillow fight, and throws it.

"Ass!"


	12. Talk About Your Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short and boring and i'm sorry but please take it bc i can't look at it anymore
> 
> i won nano btw, but i'm still working on this

Jack sprawls across the bed with clipboard and pen in hand as the shower turns on in the bathroom, and starts reading the questionnaire. It's a long list of multiple-choice questions, each with four options: yes, no, maybe, and 'I don't know'. Those questions are clustered by subject and then interspersed with long answer questions, and the overall feeling is very test-like. Well, except for the part that she has no idea what the right answers are.

What if she gets the answers wrong? Well, not 'wrong' exactly, but what if her answers and Miranda's just don't... fit? What if Miranda reads these and decides she wants nothing to do with Jack anymore?

She peruses the questions, pen gripped tightly as she tries to think of what Miranda might want her to answer, but two questions in and she's just not sure. Jack sighs. She knows Miranda, but her knowledge is all things like that she's a good sniper, a giant know-it-all nerd, self-confident, thorough, gorgeous... none of that helps her know what she wants in bed. Or, for that matter, in the section marked 'relationship styles'.

She chews on her lower lip, reading the questions over and over and wonder what to do. Well, the test says to be honest, and does she really want this if she has to lie about herself for it?

A little nasty voice in the back of her head says yes, but she knows that voice - it's the same one that always tells her it doesn't matter what she does, that she should try this drug or that drink, that it makes no difference if she lives or dies. She's got a good few years of experience in ignoring that little asshole.

In this case, though, it's almost helpful - it tells her what not to do.

Honesty it is. She puts the pen back to the paper and starts marking answers truthfully. Well, as truthfully as she can; some of these questions are weirdly specific, and she's not really sure how she feels, so she has to mark a bunch of them as unknown. She skips the long-answer questions, some because she doesn't really understand what they're asking and some because just reading them makes her want to crawl in a hole and die. She'll come back to them. Maybe.

Look, she tells herself, there's honesty and then there's... this. Maybe we can talk about it instead of me trying to write it down. She makes a little note next to the questions, so Miranda at least knows she thought about it.

There are a bunch of different sections, each with a different theme and therefore a different way of making her question herself and her intention to be honest, but she keeps at it.

She feels a little guilty as she marks all the questions about non-exclusive relationships as 'no', but despite lifting and lowering the pen a half a dozen times, she doesn't change her answers. Right now, the way she feels about herself and the way she feels about Miranda - which is a whole different box of worms, so she's not going to look any deeper into it than she needs to - the thought of touching somebody else makes her stomach turn a little. She's never had a choice about being exclusive before, or at least she's both never cared enough and felt safe enough to make a choice about it, but she wants to go into whatever this is with her eyes wide open and her hand laid bare. She has no desire to be with anyone else right now, and although she has no control over what Miranda does she wants to make it clear that she wants something exclusive.

She's not completely sure what to do with this new relationship or how - if - they're going to work out, but she's already made up her mind to hang onto this rocket with both hands until she falls off.

So she cringes her way through the section on sexual history, making a little note in the margin: 'hard to talk about'. She hovers over it for a moment, lifting and lowering her pen several times, then moves on. She knows what Miranda will read into that, but at least this way they both know what they're getting into when they do talk about it. If they talk about it.

Safe sex she just marks as 'I don't know' and moves on. Miranda is pretty adamant about it, she thinks, but aside from condoms and abstinence, Jack herself knows very little about it.

She cringes and dilly-dallies over the emotional intimacy questions, marks every type of sex that applies with a big Y, then skips the ones that assume she has a dick. She's actually glad, for the first time in her life, that she doesn't have one. Which is probably something she should discuss with Miranda, now that she thinks about it. She goes back up to one of the earlier long form questions about gender and makes a quick note before she can talk herself out of it: 'sometimes I wish I had a dick'.

She skips the whole last section about pregnancy; there's no risk of that between the two of them. Although to be honest - she now realizes - she hasn't actually asked and Miranda hasn't offered, so it's not outside the realm of possibility. Groaning, she goes back to the questions about her partner's penis, just in case, and then the ones about pregnancy. At least those are easy; the whole section is a big fat no.

When she finishes all four fucking pages - haha, fucking, she chuckles to herself and makes a note to repeat that joke out loud to Miranda - the shower is off but Miranda still hasn't come back. She thought she heard a hair dryer earlier, but now she can't hear anything, and isn't sure if she should be worried or excited. She's not sure what to do with herself while she waits, either. She kind of wants to dig around for Miranda's answers, positive they're in one of the bedside tables, but she also kind of wants to hide her questionnaire under the bed, strip naked, and hope for the best. All this talking about feelings and shit - even if it's just on a piece of paper for now - is new and somewhat uncomfortable, and she just wants to be done with it and move onto the orgasms portion of the day's activities.

To fight off the temptation to get naked, she rolls back and forth across the bed. It's more than twice the size of hers and probably ten times as comfortable, so it's actually pretty fun. Plus it's messing up the blankets, which she's sure will elicit an entertaining reaction. She's actually contemplating jumping on the bed, instead, when she looks up to see the object of her thoughts standing in the doorway wrapped in a cotton bathrobe. It's tied loosely in the front, and she can clearly see the inner slopes of Miranda's breasts and a long strip of her belly above the belt.

She doesn't manage to get a good look, though, because she promptly rolls off the bed and onto the floor, face-first.


	13. But Don't Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna apologize for the wildly inconsistent length of these chapters... if i edit this i'll try and balance things better
> 
> (note the 'if')

"Fuck!"

Jack hits the floor with a muffled thump and a yelped curse, and Miranda just can't help it: she lets out a little bark of startled laughter. She claps her hand over her mouth right after, to hold back the real laughter than follows, but the damage is done. Jack lifts her head from the ground and glares at her.

Miranda tries not to, she really does, but all she can do is laugh harder.

"I'm sorry," she manages between peals of laughter, "But your face!"

"Sure, just laugh, don't help," Jack grumbles, getting up onto her hands and knees and then standing. "Jerk."

For a second Miranda wonders if she's actually hurt, but the exaggerated glower reassures her that the only part of Jack that's taken any damage is her ego. Jack climbs back on the bed, all the way into the middle, and Miranda comes to perch lightly on the edge. Jack's little tumble did reduce some of her self-consciousness at walking out in just a robe like this, but as she smooths the material of her robe over her thighs, she's reminded acutely that she's wearing nothing under it.

It's not like she hasn't chosen this deliberately, not like she doesn't want Jack to look, but it's still sort of an awkward feeling to be sitting here nearly naked and purposefully not covering herself. Bending, she retrieves her own questionnaire from the bedside drawer, then carefully draws her legs up onto the bed, keeping her knees bent to one side to ensure she doesn't accidentally show off more than she intends to.

"What were you even doing, that you fell off the bed like that?"

Jack mumbles something and shrugs.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said nothing!" Jack says louder, "Nothing at all. Look, I did your survey, let's talk about that instead!"

Part of Miranda wants to dig further, find out what's got Jack so obviously embarrassed, but the rest of her is very preoccupied with being nearly naked next to somebody she's extremely interested in being totally naked with. She drops the subject.

"Yes," she says instead, "Let's do that."

They exchange papers, Jack leaning back against the headrest to read. As usual, her face is largely unreadable. Miranda makes a note to spend more time observing Jack's expressions - there's got to be something there, she's just not picking up on it for whatever reason. Well, that will come with time.

She looks down at the survey in her hands, glances over the first page, then unclips the pen from the clipboard and looks back up at Jack.

"These work best if we talk about our answers," she begins, "And decide what we want to do about the unknown items. For example, shall we test them now, later, or just wait and see? And I see you left the longer answers blank."

Before she speaks, Jack's face goes through a few contortions that Miranda thinks are expressions of nervousness and maybe discomfort. Then, abruptly, she looks up.

"I almost forgot!" She blurts, lowering the checklist to her lap and looking intently at Miranda. "Do you have a penis?"

Miranda stops breathing. Her heart freezes in her chest and then plummets into her stomach, and she swallows thickly, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. What does Jack know? Where did she find out? What might she do? Suddenly feeling incredibly exposed, Miranda tugs her robe closed across her chest.

"What?" she manages after what she knows is too long a pause, and her voice sounds high and tinny even to her own ears. "Of course not. Why would you-"

"Dammit! I went back and filled out the penis questions for no reason!" Jack slaps the papers in her hand against her knee, and Miranda frowns. This is... not the reaction she expected, and she can't quite make sense of what Jack is saying. Eventually she gathers enough wits to make a single, bewildered inquiry: "What?"

"I wasn't sure," Jack explains, waving the questionnaire that she holds, "I never asked and you never said, and there were a bunch of questions near the end asking about 'your partner's penis'. I skipped them at first, but then I realized I wasn't sure so I went back and answered them. For no fucking reason, apparently!"

She laughs a little, and Miranda's heart starts to settle back into its usual place. She's curious, though, and given Jack's awareness and apparent lack of concern regarding genitals, she feels safe in voicing that curiosity.

"Would that have bothered you?"

Jack cocks her head to one side, apparently confused.

"What? Why would it bother me? No," she stops and holds up a hand, "Backpedaling here, that was kind of a shitty question, I'm not playing 'most enlightened asshole' here. What I mean is... no, it wouldn't have."

Miranda relaxes some, pushing her hair back out of her face, and can't help but smile. Jack is becoming more dear to her every moment, and she wants to share of herself for no other reason than that she trusts Jack.

"If you'd asked that question ten years ago, the answer would have been different."

"Oh yeah?" Jack smiles back, full lips curving in a conspiratorial smirk. "That another reason your dad is a shitbag to you?"

Miranda laughs, questionnaire forgotten, and shakes her head.

"Oddly enough, no, although it's not because he's particularly enlightened. Apparently he'd known it was a possibility, given some anomalies in my genetics and in the hormone washes as I developed, so he just saw it as another data point. He gave me everything I ever wanted as part of my transition: puberty blockers, hormones, surgery, even gene therapy. He bought up a lab that was researching uterine implantation, even."

"What, seriously? That old asshole?" Jack looks incredulous; Miranda nods.

"But as I said, not because he's secretly a great trans ally. It was all data to him; I was a research subject. In this case I wanted it, but most of the time I didn't. Didn't matter to him, of course! I had to have all the enhancements, had to try anything that showing promising results. Drugs to bolster immune response, gene therapy to improve my longevity, procedures to increase cognition. Some worked, some made me sick, but..." She sighs, then repeats herself, "It was all data to him."

Jack is frowning when she finishes her little speech, and Miranda reaches out to lay a hand on her knee.

"Your dad's a piece of shit," Jack announces abruptly, "And I wish I'd punched him right in his fucking asshole face."

Miranda laughs again.

"Well you certainly know how to talk your way into my bed, don't you?"

"I'm already in your bed, loser," Jack retorts, but she picks up the questionnaire again and resumes reading. She frowns and lowers it again a few seconds later, before Miranda has even resumed reading hers.

"You really don't like being looked at when you're naked?"

Miranda shrugs, pushing her hair back again. She doesn't want to have this conversation. Or at least not this part of it.

"Yours says the same thing, you know."

"I mean, yeah, but that's because I'm covered in scars and shitty street tattoos. You're, like..." Jack gestures helplessly, "You're fucking gorgeous."

Miranda just shrugs again, turning away a little. She doesn't really want to talk about her feelings about her own body, she just wants Jack to accept what she's written and move on. Although she's a little disappointed that Jack feels the same way about herself; she kind of wanted to get a good look at the whole tapestry.

There's a moment of silence, tense and uncomfortable, and then Jack speaks again.

"Well, whatever. It's your body. Besides," she jokes weakly, "I literally fell off the bed after like half a peek at your tits. I might just go into cardiac arrest if I tried to take in the whole thing at once."

Miranda just smiles a little and looks away. She knows it's tense and probably looks more like a grimace, but she can't help it. Her body has always been a sore subject for her, pre- and post-transition, so while part of her wants to take the compliment that Jack intended, the rest of her feels like Jack is trying to take ownership of her.

"Let's... just read."

Jack doesn't say anything else, and as they sit in silence the tension slowly fades. Miranda flips through the pages, makes a couple notes of her own about things they should discuss, things where they differ, things she'd like to explore. It's an intimate and interesting look into Jack's mind, and she's not at all surprised to find that they have similar insecurities in many ways. She wonders if this is how Jack felt, when she tried to compliment Miranda; it's a curious kind of sadness to read about the kinds of seemingly-ordinary things that Jack carries some kind of hidden pain about.

Hypocritically enough, she wants very badly to tell Jack how much she loves her body. Or rather, how much she likes, enjoys, and appreciates it, because it is far too soon to use that word in any context at all. She does not love Jack's body, or Jack's sense of humor, or Jack. They haven't even had sex, for pity's sake, and isn't that required for the proper dopamine reactions? She's just being ridiculous and dramatic.

She buries her face in the papers she holds, grateful that Jack is facing away from her and remains oblivious to her foolishness.

As she reads, Jack slowly tips over onto her side, head near Miranda's knees and body stretched across the head of the bed. She's laying on her side, back to Miranda, exposing some truly horrible looking scars on the back of her head and neck. Miranda isn't sure she wants to know what caused them, but she does know she wants to kiss them.

"Hey," Jack asks abruptly, rolling over onto her stomach and turning those deep brown eyes on Miranda - who scrambles to put her papers between herself and Jack so she isn't caught out.

"Hmm?" she asks, forcing casualness into her voice.

"Can I put my head in your lap? Like a pillow?"

Miranda has to think about that one for a second. On one hand, she would enjoy that very much. On the other, it presents a great deal of closeness and a potent distraction, especially given her recent... thoughts. Jack pouts at her a little, tilting her head to press it against Miranda's knee, and Miranda swallows against the swell of heat and then gives into temptation.

"Yes," she breathes. Then, a moment too late, she catches herself and adds: "But facing away from me."

Jack narrows her eyes searchingly, then lets out a little snort of laughter.

"You're ticklish, aren't you?"

She absolutely is, she absolutely has no intention of letting Jack take advantage of that fact, and she also has no intention of letting Jack know where her thoughts have been. She fumbles for an answer and ends up deflecting to give herself a little more time to think.

"Why do you ask?"

"You don't want me to lay facing you, or lay face-up, and I bet it's because you don't want my breath tickling your stomach, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous-"

"I'm right! I'm right, aren't I? You're fucking ticklish!"

"Did you think for a moment that you laying facing me or facing up would make it hard to read? I'm not playing the part of a distraction, so you get to face away from me and read!"

Miranda is actually a little proud of herself for that answer; it's rock-solid, even though she only just came up with it, and not even Jack should be able to argue the point. The woman in question deflates a little, but scoots up to rest her head on Miranda's thigh. Dutifully facing away, towards the headboard, she speaks up.

"But you are ticklish, aren't you?"

"Read your questionnaire."

Jack flips to the third page and cackles.

"You're ticklish. I knew it!"

Miranda reaches down and pinches Jack's earlobe between her nails, and Jack yelps much louder than the tiny amount of pressure actually calls for.

"Hey!"

"It also says you're not allowed to tickle me."

"I know, I know. I just wanted to be right about something for once!"

Miranda rolls her eyes.

"Just read, I don't plan to sit here half naked forever."


	14. But Not In Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **** WARNING **** THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS AN EXTREMELY BRIEF, NON-GRAPHIC, NON-EXPLICIT REFERENCE TO PAST SEXUAL ASSAULTS OF A MINOR
> 
> IT ALSO MENTIONS INVOLUNTARY ADMISSION TO A PSYCHIATRIC WARD
> 
> this chapter brings up more of jack's backstory. specifically we're discussing her life after the fighting ring/pragia, which includes instances where she was sexually assaulted. i elected to make her attackers suffer far more than they did in the game, because they deserved it. i have also made their suffering more graphic than jack's.
> 
> just to be on the safe side, i've also added these warnings to the story's tags.

It's amazing how quickly they both finish reading once they actually settle down. It's also amazing how comfortable Miranda's lap is, and how Jack has managed not to literally explode despite being this incredibly turned on. Well, not so far anyway. She hasn't ruled it out entirely yet, especially if she stays here just a breath away from a great deal of skin that she would very, very much like to explore.

She can smell Miranda's soap, can feel her warmth and the movements of her breathing, and it's all she can do to process the words on the page with all of these sensations running circles around the inside of her skull.

It helps that some of those words seem to indicate that she and Miranda might be on the very same page as far as the non-monogamy thing, which is weirdly exciting. As soon as she finishes reading, she slams the papers down on the bed and rolls over onto her back. Which is a terrible idea, of course, because now Miranda's breasts are hanging immediately in front of her face and her mouth is actually fucking watering, but she's wanted to do it since she decided to put her head in Miranda's lap to begin with.

Miranda huffs and puts her papers down on Jack's face, blocking her view. It's probably, Jack thinks, a mercy.

"Done?" Miranda asks, sounding amused, and Jack blows a raspberry against the paper covering her mouth.

"Hell yeah," she confirms. "Got it all. Ask me anything."

Miranda, of course, takes her at face value.

"How do I feel about public displays of affection?"

"Not great." Jack replies promptly. This one she remembers because she feels bad for pushing Miranda's boundaries previously, even if she didn't know it. "Hand-holding and hugs are okay but not excessively, and closed-mouth kissing is okay as a hello or goodbye kind of thing." She reaches up and pushes the paper back a little, trying to look at Miranda's face as she asks, "But can I still like, put my hand on your waist or my chin on your shoulder? I'm not talking about grab-ass or walking around with my hand on your neck, I mean just like casual touching."

Miranda's brow furrows a little, and Jack watches her think.

"I think that would be alright. Just... not too much. I know we had a show to put on before, and I didn't really mind it too badly, but I find a great deal of touching to be... well, embarrassing."

"What about kissing your hand?" Jack does just that, since Miranda's hand is right there holding the papers over her face, and Miranda laughs and bats at her face a bit with the papers.

"Brat! I like it, but not in public. And not in private, either, unless you're trying to start something."

Jack gives her a saucy grin and makes a mental note. She tries to do it again, but Miranda draws away with a shake of her head. Or she thinks it's a shake, since she can't see much past the pages blocking her view.

"No distractions," Miranda chides her. "So what are these notes you've made here?"

Jack sobers all at once, struck by the sudden urge to curl up and hide. She can't hide, but she does roll off of Miranda's lap and curl into a ball for a moment. It's not like she didn't know this was coming, but it still sucks and she still doesn't want to do it. Which just sucks more, all by itself - she was fine and happy ten seconds ago, and everything was great, and now she kind of wishes she could slip between the mattress and headboard and disappear. She wonders if a person can get sick from riding an emotional roller coaster like this. She can feel Miranda shift on the bed, leaning towards her and then back away, as if unsure of herself.

"Jack? Do you not want to talk about it?"

"No," Jack answers before she can censor herself, then sighs. "I don't want to, but I'm going to. The first thing, about wanting a dick sometimes, don't worry about that right now. It's just... a thought."

"And the touching?"

"Is complicated." She can't bring herself to say anything else for a moment. This time, Miranda does touch her, just a brief brush of fingers across her shoulder, over the fabric of her shirt.

"We don't have to. We can just... wait."

Which is the absolute last thing Jack wants. She's been waiting for what feels like fifteen years, and she doesn't want to wait any goddamn more. She flips herself over in one rough motion, so that she's facing Miranda, and she grabs that gentle hand and presses it to the side of her jaw. She holds it there as she speaks; she needs to feel Miranda's warmth right now.

"I've been through a lot of shit. The fighting you know, but after that I ran with a gang, joined a cult - kept the haircut - and spent some time in prison. Juvie. Best guess is I was fourteen or fifteen when I went in, and while I was there I... was assaulted."

"Jack-" Miranda starts, but Jack keeps talking over her. She needs to get this part out.

"It wasn't the first time. The first time was right after I escaped the fights. But somehow this time fucked me up way worse. I guess I knew more, understood more. I made a shiv, stabbed two of them." Right in their fucking dicks, she thinks but doesn't say, remembering them thrashing around on the ground, clutching themselves, screaming and sobbing and bleeding at her feet. She relishes these memories in a way that she doesn't think Miranda would get. "Then I got caught trying to get the third one. They decided I was crazy and put me on the psych ward."

She can't help but laugh a little, bitter. Sometimes she can still taste the pills sitting dry on her tongue, feel the rubber of the gloves in her mouth as they poked around in there, checking that she had swallowed.

"The psych ward was worse in some ways. I was dangerous, they said, so I was on 24-hour watch. No privacy, no time alone. I couldn't so much as piss without somebody watching me do it. All my shit about touch comes from there. Like, no grabbing my upper arms, no fingers in my mouth, no holding me down, especially by the shoulders. I can't sleep on my back. I can't be tied up or restrained. I can't... I can't drink out of those fucking little paper water cups, and I can't dry-swallow pills. Don't stare at me when I'm showering, or just... when I'm naked. I'm sorry, I know it's a lot-"

"Do not apologize."

Miranda interrupts this time, and her voice is low and fierce in a way that has Jack blinking back tears. She sounds like she's ready to fight the whole world on Jack's behalf. Miranda ducks her head, pushing her hair back from her forehead so she can duck close to Jack's face.

"Is this okay?" she asks, mouth hovering near Jack's temple, and Jack nods. Miranda presses a soft kiss there, her lips lingering on the delicate skin for a moment before she finally pulls away. A strange feeling, hot and bright, swells up in Jack's chest; she doesn't know what to do with it, so she just leaves it there and waits to see what will happen. It settles into the corners of her chest, making her feel sort of... weightless. Words rise to her tongue, and she bites them back almost as soon as she realizes what she wants to say. In the middle of her tragic backstory is not the time for some half-assed confession of love.

"Is there anything else?" Miranda asks, and Jack latches onto the distraction from her own thoughts.

"Nitrile gloves," she blurts out, then has to backtrack when Miranda cocks her head in confusion. "I can't deal with those... the blue nitrile gloves. The ones that every doctor on the fucking planet uses. I know it talks about using rubber gloves for safe sex, but we have to find something different. And the taste, too, I can't handle that in my mouth."

Miranda nods, thoughtfully Jack thinks, and bends to kiss her face again. Jack relaxes into the mattress. Somewhere deep down, maybe she thought Miranda would cut and run after all this. Even now she imagines it would be the much easier option. And yet here she is, not dismissing Jack, not telling her to get over it, not even brushing it off, but actually thinking about the problem. Fitting their needs together. She thinks that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if she were to fall for Miranda. Not that she already has, but if she does, in the future, that wouldn't be so bad. In the future.

Miranda is talking, and Jack tunes in somewhat belatedly.

"...latex, flavors, even plastic wrap. If that doesn't work, we'll find something else. "

Jack sniffs a little, and can't help but wonder aloud: "How many of those options do you have in this room right now?"

Miranda stiffens and treats her to a somewhat exasperated look. Serious talk is over for the moment. It'll be back, she's sure, but for now she's more than ready to get frisky.

"Enough of them to ravish you extremely thoroughly," Miranda retorts, and Jack cackles.

"Ravish? Who says ravish? Is this a bad romance novel? Where did you even pick that word up, what kinds of books-"

This time, Miranda silences Jack with a kiss.


	15. And Get Some

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy nanowrimo i wrote most of this almost a year ago but i hated it
> 
> sorry for no explicit sex, there's a lot of complicated reasons

As important as a thorough discussion about consent, boundaries, and safer sex is to Miranda, she can't really deny that kissing is a lot more fun. Well, most of the time - there have been some duds in the past. Jack, fortunately enough, is nowhere near that category. Kissing her is an intense, blood-boiling, head-spinning, whole-body affair, and it's all she can do to keep breathing as she moves to straddle Jack's waist again. Somehow it's even better than the first time; she wonders briefly if it might just be that she's more present, less worried about trying to make herself stop. Then she decides not to think anymore, because she has better things to do, like sliding her hands up under Jack's shirt and touching the taut stomach she's been thinking about since yesterday.

It feels just as good as it looks, if not better. Through a thin layer of fat, she can feel the hard muscles working as Jack arches up under her touch, and she drags her nails down across the tight skin. Beneath her, Jack growls, but doesn't try to flip them over this time. Good.

She drags Jack's shirt up and over her head, hyperaware that Jack also doesn't want to be stared at. She does steal a quick glance while the shirt is covering Jack's eyes, but despite the temptation she doesn't linger. It's lucky that she has a good memory, because she definitely wants to remember the way Jack looks right now, with her arms above her head pulling her small breasts high onto her chest and that dip between her abs clearly visible.

Remembering how eager Jack was to show off her nakedness through the mesh shirt, Miranda makes a mental note to ask exactly how naked Jack has to be before she gets uncomfortable being looked at. Then she throws the shirt away into the distance and bends to resume kissing. There's a vague twinge of displeasure with the knowledge that there is now a piece of clothing lying on her floor, but there's also no way in hell she's going to go pick it up right now.

She fills her hands with tattooed skin, rubs her thumb in rough circles over one nipple until Jack is squirming beneath her and moaning into her mouth, one hand grasping roughly at the back of Miranda's neck.

"Impatient," Miranda chides as she finally releases Jack's lips, and the only reply is a breathless curse and demanding pressure against the back of her neck. She acquiesces, pressing wet kisses to the dip behind Jack's right ear and the sharp line of her jaw. Miranda bites the tender skin on the underside of Jack's jaw, tugging it between her teeth, and Jack groans and slides her hand up into Miranda's hair, gripping a handful of the dark locks. So, naturally, Miranda lingers there for a moment longer until she's left a neat reddish circle and Jack is spitting curses from behind her teeth and all but writhing against the sheets.

Of course, she can't let Jack think that she's the one in charge around here - at least for the moment - so Miranda's next stop is the front of Jack's throat, just above the dip of her collarbone. She can feel the vibrations of Jack's cursing through her teeth as she bites down, although with the blood rushing in her ears she can't actually make out what the words are.

Miranda contemplates leaving another mark, but Jack's body is so hot beneath her hands, tattooed chest rising and falling rapidly and out of rhythm, and Miranda just can't force herself to stay in one place any longer. She bites Jack's shoulder, her collarbone and ribs, the firm muscle of her stomach... anywhere it feels like she can get a good grip. Well, except for the places Jack's hand and its increasingly tight grip on her hair are trying guide her. When she tugs at the waistband of Jack's pajama pants with her teeth, the grip in her hair, which has been skirting the edge of painful for a while, jumps right over the line. She hisses and rakes her nails down Jack's side, drawing a growl from the woman beneath her. The grip in her hair loosens just a bit, and she uses the opportunity to move back up across Jack's body, pressing their mouths together in a clash of teeth and tongues.

The move is calculating to distract Jack while Miranda reaches for a glove in the bedside drawer, but it works almost too well; Miranda nearly forgets to grab the glove at all, and ends up snatching several in a panic.Well, better too many than too few.

When she pulls away, just far enough to take a breath, Jack is holding tightly to her hair again.

"If you don't stop fucking around," Jack snarls against her mouth, "I'm gonna take care of it myself."

Miranda is suddenly - overwhelmingly - tempted to spit back with an 'I dare you', but she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jack would take her up on it. And that's not part of the plan for today. She files the thought away for later, though. It's a nice one, after all.

"I thought fucking," she hisses the word, "Was the whole point." Jack's eyes widen, then narrow; Miranda chooses to interpret this as surprise and amusement. Jack sounds amused when she replies, anyway.

"Well we've done a hell of a lot more talking about it than doing it, so I'll believe it when I see it."

"Oh, you'll believe it, that I promise you."

Miranda hesitates for just a second. Bravado aside, she needs a glove for the next part of her plan and isn't sure how reconcile that with Jack's distaste for them. She thinks briefly about trying to do it sneakily, but dismisses the thought; they're supposed to be honest. And beside that, Jack would definitely notice at some point.

"Why don't you take those pants off," she finally says, "And I'll grab a glove, and we'll see how this goes?"

Before Miranda even finishes speaking, Jack is squirming around, struggling to get out of her pajama pants. In the midst of her single-minded effort, she doesn't appear to notice or care as Miranda slips a glove onto her right hand.

And then Jack is naked, and even without staring it's better than she could have hoped for. Miranda carefully lays herself along Jack's side instead of directly on top of her, putting some weight on Jack's body but leaving plenty of space for her to move away if it gets to be too much. She nips at Jack's earlobe, at her jaw, at her throat, marks her in a half-dozen places as Jack's body draws tighter under her touch and Jack's grip tightens in her hair. Breathless, lightheaded, and so turned on she thinks she might just devour Jack whole, Miranda sets a punishing pace until finally - finally! - Jack's arches up under her for a long trembling second and then collapses to the bed, panting and cursing. To Miranda's surprise, Jack's actual orgasm is almost silent, a soft grunt the only noise that escapes her open mouth.

Jack lays, chest heaving, with both arms sprawled above her head, and grins wide and dopey. The expression makes her look young again, and Miranda's heart turns over as she quickly strips the glove from her hand and drops it in the trash.

Rather than address the uninvited feelings coalescing behind her breastbone, Miranda climbs up and over Jack's torso and perches once again atop those narrow hips. She tosses her now-messy hair back, and Jack's grin takes on a sharp edge, her hands migrating to Miranda's hips and her fingers digging in.

Reaching into the bedside drawer again, Miranda pulls out a dental dam in its sealed packet, dropping it on Jack's chest. It lands with a soft slap, and Miranda gives her best predatory grin.

"My turn."


End file.
